


Clean: a Housemates series story

by flutterflap



Category: Being Human (UK), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brother Feels, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Families of Choice, Family, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Haven't Abandoned This, I'm Just A Slow Writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-19
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:36:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 116,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flutterflap/pseuds/flutterflap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark magic is at work in Bristol, placing everyone in danger.</p>
<p>Or, fanfic of fanfic: in which I rewrite Series 2 of <i>Being Human</i> in Coneycat's <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/14925">Housemates</a> AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Monsters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/322356) by [Coneycat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coneycat/pseuds/Coneycat). 



> This story takes place in the [Housemates crossover AU](http://archiveofourown.org/series/14925) created by Coneycat, in which Loki, after the events of the first _Thor_ movie, falls from the Bifrost and lands in Bristol. Instead of becoming evil, he finds a place with George, Mitchell, and Annie, and finds a way back to himself. Coneycat has reimagined many of the events of season one in her original story, ”Monsters," and its Bristol-focused follow up, "Clockworks and Cold Steel.” “Clean” takes place a few months after the holiday story, ”The Wool-White, Bell-Tongued Ball of Holidays," and is my reimagining of the events of BH season 2, and possibly some of season 3, though I anticipate we’ll be taking a dramatic departure from canon by the time we get there.
> 
> For the purposes of this story, I recommend at least reading [ “Monsters”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/322356/chapters/518991) for the basics of the universe and character dynamics. For readers unfamiliar with the series who may want to start here, I’ve done my best to clarify references to earlier stories. I may also occasionally put in a clarifying footnote; that seems like the most unobtrusive way to provide important information without a lot of extra exposition. Seriously, though, just go read the original series. I’ll wait.
> 
> The Housemates stories offered my brain an opening to try to solve a problem that’s been worrying at me for awhile now: how could things have turned out differently for Mitchell? This story is my attempt to answer that.
> 
> I'm posting this story with Coneycat's kind permission, and many thanks for her stories and for her enthusiasm for this project!

Loki stretched lazily and looked contentedly around at his housemates. It was Sunday afternoon, a rare one when neither George nor Mitchell had to work, and the four of them were sprawled comfortably about the lounge. Loki lay stretched out on the couch with a book and the kittens, now leggy adolescents, draped across his lap. Annie leaned against him, pleasantly cool against his side, paging through a cooking magazine and making notes with a highlighter pen. George occupied the red chair beside the couch, and Mitchell stretched out on the floor beside the coffee table, propped on an elbow, both of them intently watching a football match on the television as the afternoon light waned. Scamp, the little ghost dog the four of them had rescued from her imprisonment in an abandoned church, dozed in her basket beside the couch, her tail wagging occasionally.

Annie noticed him move and glanced up curiously. Loki smiled. “Nothing,” he said, in response to her unasked question. “Just happy.” 

Annie grinned. “Me, too,” she agreed, snuggling against him. There was an eruption of cheering on the television, and both George and Mitchell let out huffs of disgust. “Unbelievable,” George muttered. Mitchell huffed again in agreement. Annie and Loki exchanged smiles and both went back to their reading.

Life in the little pink house on the terrace had been blessedly quiet in the months since Annie had confronted Owen and banished him from their lives for good. They had later gotten word through Heimdall that Owen, half-mad, had turned himself in to the police and was now locked away in a high-security mental institution; a fate, Loki thought, rather better than he deserved. In the continued absence of any leader to emerge following Herrick’s death, now over a year previous, the Bristol vampires had remained underground. Ownership of the pink house had changed hands quietly, to a young couple happy to have them as tenants, and the boiler was finally fixed by a repairman quite baffled at how it had ever worked in the first place. Loki had smiled innocently, pretending puzzlement, and offered the man a cup of tea while Annie smothered her giggles. 

The housemates had had a boisterous Christmas (not to mention Festivus, Yule, Hannukkah, and Kwanzaa) with the Avengers at Tony Stark’s mansion in Scotland, followed by a quiet New Year at home (well, three of them; George had spent his with Nina) drinking champagne and watching Casablanca. They rewound the bar scene three times to watch Mitchell—invisible on camera, of course—knock over a chair in the background.

After further consultation with Ms. Kingston and Ms. Hamoudi, the headmistress and deputy headmistress at the school where he worked as a custodian, Loki had decided to begin his Access to Higher Education course the following fall, in preparation for pursuing the credentials that would allow him to become a teacher. In the meantime, Loki had spent the first months of the year reading the works of Shakespeare, having grown tired of being unable to follow the frequent references his friends made to the plays. He was currently reading _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_. He was greatly amused at the activities of mischievous Puck, though he confessed to being a bit bored by the squabbles of the lovers.

Another eruption of shouting on the television drew Loki’s attention back to the room. “What?!” George almost squeaked, at the same time as Mitchell cried, “Seriously? Are they not going to call that?”

Loki glanced at the television, watching to see if the referee would display a flag denoting a penalty. When none was forthcoming, he observed, mostly to annoy Mitchell, “It appears they are not.”

Mitchell shot him a withering look and Annie giggled into her magazine. Mitchell’s expression turned suddenly hopeful, and he asked, “I don’t suppose you could hex the ref through the TV?”

Loki spread his hands with an expression of regret. “Alas, enchantment via the television is beyond even my considerable capabilities. Perhaps if I had held onto Excalibur.” He paused, then added, “Although, I doubt that would be a use of which the Lady of the Lake would approve, even for Manchester United.” George snorted. Loki frowned at the figures on the television and asked blandly, “Or is that not who’s playing?”

Annie smacked him with her magazine, and George muttered, “That’s not even the right league.”

“You’re hopeless,” Mitchell sighed dramatically.

“Well, if I’m going to be hopeless at something…” Loki murmured, turning back to _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_.

A knock sounded just then at the door, and Mitchell got to his feet. “That’ll be the food,” he said, collecting the money they had all contributed from the coffee table as he crossed the room.

Loki had dropped his head back against the armrest of the sofa to watch Mitchell with the vague intent of seeing if he would need help with the parcels, and so he didn’t notice right away that Scamp had got to her feet in her basket and was watching the door with her ears pricked up. 

As Mitchell reached the door, she let out a warning bark, and then a growl. Alarmed, Loki glanced in her direction. Her former occupation as the guardian of a churchyard had left her with certain…abilities, when she sensed danger, and now her shape changed, grew, until she was nearly as large as a pony. Her curly coat transformed into coarse fur, and her eyes went red. Loki’s heart dropped.

“Mitchell, don’t!” he shouted, but too late: Mitchell paused with his hand the latch, already turning it as he glanced back at them. The door slammed inward, there was a smell of burning flesh, and Mitchell staggered back into the entryway, a wooden stake protruding from his chest.

“Mitchell!” George shot to his feet. 

Mitchell’s back hit the wall and he slid down it, gasping and choking on blood.

Loki vaulted over the arm of the sofa, sending kittens and books flying. He crossed the room in three long strides to kneel beside him. Dimly, he was aware of his friends moving, the door slamming, panicked voices, but his attention was focused on Mitchell.

A dark stain was spreading rapidly on his chest. Mitchell’s mouth worked like he was trying to speak. Instead, he coughed and spat out blood, pain beginning to replace shock on his face. His hands hovered around the stake, as though he wanted to pull it from his chest but couldn’t quite bring himself to touch it.

“Shh,” Loki said. “It’s all right, you’re going to be all right.” Loki grasped the stake in one hand and braced the other against his friend’s chest. “I’m going to take it out, Mitchell. It’s going to hurt, I’m sorry,” he said, and then pulled.

Mitchell screamed. His cry seemed to go on forever, though it could only have lasted a few seconds before it trailed off into short, painful gasps. Loki tossed the bloodied piece of wood aside and pressed both hands over the wound in Mitchell’s chest. Blood pulsed against his palms.

Annie appeared next to him and held out a clean towel. Loki took it and pressed it against the wound. Her eyes were bright with tears, but her voice only wobbled a little as she said, “Hold on, Mitchell, it’s going to be all right.” She looked at Loki. “You can heal him, can’t you?”

Loki nodded and closed his eyes, focused on his breathing. He formed a picture in his mind and, as he did so, gathered his power. Inhale, exhale. Warmth began to gather in his chest. He visualized the wound in Mitchell’s chest, the torn flesh and bone and vessels, the damage to his heart, and poured his magic into repairing them.

He was…pushed out.

He snapped back into his body, inhaling sharply. Mitchell’s chest heaved under his hands. “What is it?” Annie asked. “What’s wrong?”

Loki shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t,” he began, then shook his head again, to clear it, closed his eyes, and tried again.

Inhale, exhale. He formed the picture in his mind, saw it clearly, and directed his magic toward repairing the damage to Mitchell’s body. He was prepared for the resistance this time, met it, and _pushed._

And was pushed out, harder this time. The sensation was like trying to hold the wrong ends of two magnets together. He rocked back onto his heels, his eyes flying open.

“I can’t,” he said to Annie, a note of panic in his voice. He looked around at George, still standing with his back against the door. “I don’t understand. His body, it’s pushing me out.”

“What do we do?” Annie asked, frantic.

George pushed away from the door and fumbled for the phone. He dialed and asked for an ambulance, his voice high and agitated.

“What are you doing?” Loki demanded. “We can’t take him to the hospital! He’s—”

“He needs blood,” George interrupted, hanging up the phone. “They can help him. We’ll deal with the rest when—” 

“When Mitchell’s better,” Annie finished, nodding. Loki concentrated on applying pressure to the wound, thinking, half-hysterical, that the practice of donating blood, which George had explained to him, was about to be put to a very different purpose than for which it had been intended.

Mitchell coughed up more blood and moaned. Annie reached up and smoothed the hair from his forehead. “Hold on, Mitchell, help is on the way. All right? We’re right here.”

He looked from her to Loki, then over to George, who had come to kneel on his other side. “Herrick,” he said. His voice was a thin, painful whisper.

The three exchanged a glance. George squeezed Mitchell’s hand and said, “No, Mitchell. Herrick is dead. Remember?”

Mitchell shook his head. “It…was…Herrick,” he insisted. He closed his eyes “…Alive.”

At Loki and Annie’s questioning expressions, George gave a small shake of his head, indicating he hadn’t seen Mitchell’s assailant. Annie said, soothing, “All right. It’s all right, he’s gone now. Stay with us, okay, Mitchell? Open your eyes.”

He did, focusing on them with some effort. “Don’t know how, but…back.”

Fear made a heavy knot in Loki’s stomach at the thought, at what else it might mean. The implications swirled in his mind, the kind of power it would involve… Firmly, he pushed his fears aside, to be dealt with later. “He will not harm you,” he told Mitchell. Loki’s gaze encompassed George and Annie, as he added, “I will not allow it.” 

A few moments later a siren and flashing lights announced the arrival of the ambulance. With some relief, the housemates turned Mitchell over to the paramedics. None of them wanted to leave his side, but since only one of them could ride in the ambulance with him, Loki went with Mitchell, as the best equipped both to defend him from any threats and to make sure any medical equipment behaved as though Mitchell were human. George and Annie followed in the car.

They gathered again in the corridor outside the trauma room, watching through the open door as nurses and orderlies moved him from the stretcher to a table. Confused and disoriented, Mitchell tried to resist, half sitting up and pulling the oxygen mask from his face. A nurse took his shoulders and pressed him down, kindly but firmly. “Leave the mask, Mitchell,” she said, repositioning it over his nose and mouth. “Lie back.” Mitchell’s fearful eyes found his friends, standing the doorway. His eyes began to lose focus. He relaxed, allowed himself to be pushed back. A doctor strode into the room, pulling latex gloves on as he did. “I need some blood in here!” he called over his shoulder, followed by a string of other commands Loki couldn’t understand, and then an orderly drew a curtain, shielding Mitchell from view.

Annie buried her face in Loki’s shoulder. He put his arm around her and squeezed, as much to take comfort as to offer it, then reached past her to rest his hand on George’s shoulder. George reached up and patted it, and the three of them shuffled backward until they reached a row of chairs against the opposite wall and sat.

“Now, we wait,” said George.

***

Loki did not know how long they sat in the corridor; it could have been hours, or only minutes. He felt numb, drained. At some point he followed George’s directions to the lavatory and washed the blood from his hands, though his clothes were still covered in it. Annie vanished home, briefly, to check on Scamp and the kittens, and returned with the little ghost dog in tow.

“I couldn’t leave her,” she said. Scamp sat at Annie’s feet and leaned against her.

“Of course not,” Loki agreed, scratching her ears. They were alone in the corridor for the moment, which was good, because he would have looked very strange indeed, petting an invisible dog. He didn’t particularly care. The three of them sat in silence, staring at the curtain that hid Mitchell from them, as if staring hard enough would tell them what they wanted to know, would make Mitchell all right.

“George!” 

Loki looked up at the sound of Nina’s voice. George stood up as she approached and threw his arms around her. They held each other tightly for a moment, and then Nina drew back, still holding his hands as she looked up at him. “I just got in for my shift and I heard about Mitchell. Is he…?” She glanced behind her, where the curtain still shielded Mitchell from sight. Turning back, she caught sight of Loki and her eyes went wide. “My God,” she said. “Is that all his?”

Loki blinked, then looked down at himself, at his shirt. He swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“Shit.” She looked back at George, chafing his hands between hers. “Are you all right?”

George’s knees buckled. He dropped back into his chair, clutching Nina’s hands tightly and shaking his head. She squatted before him. “George?”

His face crumpled. He bowed his head and pressed their linked hands to his forehead, letting out a sob. Annie reached up and patted his back, looking like she might start crying, as well. “It happened so fast,” George said, his voice muffled. “There was so much blood.”

Nina closed her eyes, looking pained. “Shit,” she said again. Her gaze took in Loki and Annie as well as she said, “Is there anything I can do?” 

Loki felt a surge of warmth for her. He knew she did not like Mitchell very much, but her concern was sincere, and it was for all of them. He reached past Annie and also placed a hand on George’s back.

“Thank you,” he said. “I think that all we can do right now is wait.”

Nina nodded. She ducked her head toward George and said his name softly. He looked up at her, hiccupping. She freed her hands from his and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I have to go work,” she told him. “I’ll come check on you again in a little while, all right? You know where to find me if you need me.”

George nodded. She kissed him, ruffled his hair, and left, glancing back before she turned the corner at the end of the corridor.

It wasn’t long after that they wheeled Mitchell out. George, Annie, and Loki followed in a tight huddle, through a maze of corridors and into a lift, to a quieter, dimly-lit ward in another part of the hospital. Loki barely listened to the doctor telling them he could do no more that night, only waited anxiously for him to go, to leave them alone. 

As soon as he had gone, Loki and George stationed themselves on either side of the bed, each holding one of Mitchell’s hands. Annie perched at his shoulder, smoothing his hair. Scamp hopped up on the bed and lay down by Mitchell’s feet, her large brown eyes watching him anxiously. Mitchell lay motionless. He was bare to the waist, a sheet and a light blanket tucked around his legs. A large square bandage was taped to his chest. His normally pale skin was ashen, his eyes sunken into their sockets. A needle in his arm was delivering dark blood from a bag hanging above his head, and clear fluid from another dripped into his hand.

He’s going to be all right, Loki told himself firmly, squeezing Mitchell’s cold fingers.

“Of course he will be,” Annie said. Loki looked up, not realizing he had spoken aloud. George nodded.

“He’ll be fine. He needs blood, is all.”

Annie, George, and Loki huddled close to their friend, and watched, and waited.

***

“This is not good,” George said. He was pacing around the little hospital room, scrubbing his hands through his hair and kicking at the walls when he reached them. “This is really, really not good.”

Hours had passed since Mitchell had been moved out of A&E, and he still lay motionless, though Loki thought his color looked a little better. As promised, Nina had come to check on them, and told them there was a room set aside for patients’ families if any of them wanted to sleep a little, but none of them had.

“I don’t understand,” Annie said. She vanished from where she was standing by the bed and reappeared in the chair beside Loki’s. “Why isn’t he getting better? They’re pumping him full of blood. Isn’t that what he needs?”

George gestured helplessly. “I don’t know,” he said.

George and Annie both looked at Loki, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting in his hands, staring at Mitchell. He felt their gazes on him and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he agreed, sighing and sitting up. “I think it may have to do with the reason I could not heal him. I do not completely understand it, but I have been thinking, and I am starting to have some ideas.”

George gestured impatiently for him to go on, but before he could, there was a rustling sound from the bed, as Mitchell began to stir. They rushed to his side.

Mitchell moved restlessly, moaning a little as he came awake. “Hey,” George said, taking his hand. “Hey, hey, hey.” Mitchell looked up at him, his eyes unfocused and confused. George smiled down at him. “Hey, mate. You’re all right.”

Mitchell blinked a few times, and then he startled into wakefulness. He bolted upright, grabbing George’s arm. His other hand found Loki’s and clutched it painfully. “He’s coming,” he said, looking from one to the other.

“No, no, it’s all right, you’re safe now. We got you away, Mitchell, it’s fine,” George said, his voice the same soft croon as he gently uncurled Mitchell’s fingers from around his arm and tried to encourage him to lie back down.

Mitchell shook his head, looking fearfully around at the three of them. “No, he’s coming here, he’s in the hospital. We have to—I have to…” He trailed off into a moan, sinking back against the pillows. His hand went to the bandage on his chest. “He’s here.”

“Didn’t you put the rhinoceros charm on the hospital?” Annie asked Loki. He nodded. He had renewed the defensive spells on the hospital and on the school only last week. Any ill-intentioned supernatural creature attempting to enter should have been stopped by what was essentially a patronus, in the shape of rhinoceros. (Loki was very fond of rhinoceroses.) 

“Then how could he have gotten in?”

Loki shook his head, fear and worry making a tight knot in his chest. “I do not know. I did not feel the spell trigger,” he said. He looked down at Mitchell; he was trying to push himself upright once more and reaching for the machines monitoring him. 

“Have to…Get me out of here,” he said.

“We can’t move you!” Annie protested.

“Mitchell.” Loki placed a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder and pressed him back against the pillows. He was too weak to fight him, but he tried, looking at his friend with terror in his eyes as he struggled to sit up. “Annie is right,” Loki said. “We cannot move you. I will handle this. It will be fine.” He turned to Annie and George. “Stay with him. I will go investigate.”

In the corridor, Loki cast about with his magic until he found a faint trail, and then turned to the left and strode down the hallway. 

He reached a junction and paused again, inhaling deeply. The scent of magic was like and unlike the faint whiffg that accompanied most vampires. It had the same undercurrent of carrion, of blood and rotting meat, but it was overlaid with something else, something more elemental: a deeper, older magic that smelled of metal and sulfur. 

He turned another corner and came to a halt when he saw a familiar figure at the far end of the corridor.

Herrick was wearing his policeman’s uniform. He stopped several meters away from him, spread his hands and smiled at Loki with mock regret. “Your little rhinoceros trick didn’t work. I wonder why?”

“I suspect it is because you are dead,” Loki replied, with studied boredom. His mouth was dry. “I seem to recall reducing you to dust not very long ago.” He examined the nails on his left hand, though he kept a sharp watch on Herrick out of the corners of his eyes. To an observer, he appeared to be standing casually, but his whole body was coiled, ready to fight at the slightest hint of a threat from Herrick. He held his right hand at his side, palm toward the floor, a defensive spell at the ready.

“So you did,” Herrick agreed. “And yet I am back.” 

“Indeed.” Loki let his hand fall to his side and fixed Herrick with an expression rather like the one the teachers at his school wore when they were faced with the latest hijinks of the young pranksters, Trevor and Patrick. “I confess I find it rather annoying. I’m going to have to kill you again, now.”

Herrick chuckled. “You can certainly try.” He took a step forward. Loki gathered his power, began forming it, but Herrick raised his hands, palms out. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, his tone amused. “Yet. I’m just here with a warning. Your tricks don’t work on me.” He dropped his arms to his sides and stepped back, a wide smile on his face. “I’ll be coming for you.” And then, starting at his feet, he began to dissolve into an oily black smoke that roiled in the still air. Herrick’s eyes went black and he smiled, showing his fangs, and then his face, too, vanished into the roiling black mass. The cloud hung in the air for another moment before it began to dissipate, leaving behind the overpowering scent, to Loki’s magical senses, of sulfur and blood.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well?” Mitchell asked, when Loki returned. He looked anxious, but was no longer attempting to get up—though that may have been owing to the fact that Annie and George sat on either side of him, each holding one of his hands.

“It was Herrick,” Loki confirmed. He sat on the edge of the bed and tucked one foot under him. “Or something that looks like Herrick.” He told them what had happened.

“Your magic doesn’t work against him?” Annie asked, alarmed, when he finished.

Loki raised a hand in a placating gesture. “The _rhinoceros charm_ doesn’t work. He was bluffing. He does not know the extent of my powers.”

“How can you be sure?” George demanded, his voice rising in both pitch and volume.

“He would not have shown me so much of his if he had known,” Loki explained. “The rhinoceros charm works against creatures of flesh and blood; that is why he could get past it. Now that I know he can dissolve himself into smoke, I can defend against him. And I know the scent of his magic,” he added thoughtfully. “Really, it was a very poor bluff. I think you would say he showed me all his cards.”

“Unless that’s what he wants you to think,” Mitchell said grimly.

Loki compressed his lips together. “That is indeed a possibility,” he agreed. “Still, I think I he greatly underestimates me, and that gives us an advantage.”

“Is it possible that he’s still a vampire?” George asked. At their questioning looks, he continued, “Well, Dracula can transform into a mist.” He turned to Mitchell. “I know most of it’s rubbish, not being able to cross running water and needing to sleep in your native soil and all that, but Bram Stoker was drawing on the vampire lore of his day. Maybe there was a kernel of truth to it?”

“He got the stake through the heart thing right,” Mitchell agreed, looking ruefully down at his chest. He shifted position carefully, looking thoughtful. “There are…stories,” he said. “About the Old Ones. Really, really old vampires, thousands of years old, or so they claim, anyway. They say they have…powers. Mind control, things like that.” He started to shrug, then seemed to think better of it, and continued, “I always thought it was just urban legends. I never bothered to find out much about it.”

“But Herrick is not an Old One,” Loki said.

Mitchell shook his head. “Definitely not. And he’s dead. He was dust. But…it _was_ him, I’m sure of it. Vampires—we—can sense each other, especially the one who made you. That’s how I knew he was here, and it—he felt different, but…the same, if that makes sense.”

“It makes sense,” Loki said. “I, too, sensed something familiar about him. He is still a vampire, or still governed by the rules of your kind, at least partially. He could not enter our house, could he?”

“No. He pushed through the barrier to stake me, but he was beginning to burn, just with an arm over the threshold.”

Loki nodded. “I will go to Asgard,” he decided. “Perhaps I can find something in the library there that will be of use to us. In the morning,” he added, when he saw Annie’s worried expression. “After we take Mitchell home. I will lay a new enchantment on the house.”

They agreed, and Annie turned back to Mitchell, taking his hand again and squeezing it. “What about you?” she asked him. “Are you going to be all right?”

“My body can’t make new blood. This”—he lifted the arm with the IV—“it helps a little, but…” He trailed off. “I’ll heal, eventually, but I’ll still be weak.” He grimaced. “Herrick didn’t kill me, but he’s still put me out of commission.”

“I will speak to the healers at Asgard,” Loki said. “Perhaps they will have some ideas.”

Mitchell smiled gratefully. “Thanks.”

“You’ll be fine,” George assured him, then he turned to Loki. “You said before, you had some ideas about why you couldn’t heal Mitchell.”

Loki nodded. “I tried to heal you,” he said, addressing Mitchell, “and…I couldn’t. It was like your body couldn’t accept the spell. Not only that, it actively rejected it. I have been thinking, also about the donated blood they have given you, and why that also does not seem to be helping very much.” He paused, trying to find the right words to explain his conclusion.

“And?” George prompted.

Loki spread his hands, feeling that he was about to say something rude. “Technically, you are dead,” he said to Mitchell. “I believe your body rejected the spell because it is meant to heal living beings. You are…not.”

To his relief, Mitchell only nodded thoughtfully. “Makes sense,” he said.

“What about the blood?” Annie asked.

Mitchell looked suddenly uncomfortable, and he avoided all of their gazes as he answered. “It’s not alive,” he said softly. “Loki’s right, I’m not really alive, or really dead—”

“Mostly dead,” Loki couldn’t stop himself from muttering. He clamped down on the giggle that rose in his throat, knowing he was becoming hysterical.

Mitchell smiled without humor. “ _Un_ dead,” he corrected. “It’s not the blood as such, it’s…the life associated with it, that we feed on.”

“The blood is the life,” George murmured, in a tone as if he were quoting something.

Mitchell turned his head on the pillow and looked at George with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and disgust. “Really, George?” he asked. “ _Renfield?_ ”

“Well, it’s another thing Stoker got right.” George’s tone was serious, but his mouth twitched. Mitchell just looked at him incredulously.

“ _Renfield?_ ” he repeated. “Seriously?”

Noticing Loki’s confusion, George explained, “Renfield is a character in _Dracula._ ” He started to giggle. “He’s sort of, like, the first vampire groupie.”

Loki glanced at Annie. She shrugged. “I never read it,” she admitted.

“He _eats flies_ ,” Mitchell said. “He is in thralldom to Dracula, and he’s insane. I can’t believe you just compared me to him.”

George snorted with laughter, and then got hold of himself with visible effort. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he managed, and then dissolved again. “He does eat flies,” he giggled, “And he says, over and over, ‘the blood is the life!’” Loki was still mystified by the joke, but in his exhaustion George’s giddiness was infectious, and he found himself imagining Mitchell, wild-eyed, chasing after a swarm of flies and crying “The blood is the life!” Soon even Mitchell relented and laughed, the night’s tension releasing them on the edge of hysteria.

“Ow,” Mitchell raised a hand to his chest, wincing.

“Are you okay?” Annie asked anxiously, reaching for his hand again.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, his expression pinched. “It just hurts.”

George squinted at the assorted wires and tubes attached to Mitchell. “I think one of these is morphine,” he said. “There should be a thing you can control it with…”

They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. George glanced up, distracted from his search; he looked surprised and then, strangely, hostile. He scrambled out of his chair and around the bed, coming to stand between their visitor and Mitchell. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Loki turned to see a man standing in the doorway, wearing black and holding a small leatherbound book in one hand. He was youngish, blond and blue-eyed, and had an aura of gentleness around him that made George’s hostility seem even stranger. He looked taken aback, and held up his hands in the see-I’m-unarmed gesture. “I’m Mark, the hospital chaplain?” he said, making the statement a question. “They called me at home.”

“Why?” Annie asked, sounding more curious than hostile, but she, too, moved as if to shield Mitchell. Loki stayed where he was, already between Mitchell and the door, though it didn’t seem necessary, as the man was wearing no visible religious symbols, and the leatherbound book—Loki assumed it was a bible—had no markings on its cover. He glanced back at Mitchell, and confirmed that he did not seem to be suffering any in the man’s presence.

“It’s hospital policy to call me when an employee is admitted,” Mark explained.

George blinked, looked at his watch, and then held it up so it faced the chaplain. “It’s 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“They said he might not…” The man hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “They said I should come tonight.” He rose up on tiptoe to look past them at Mitchell, very clearly recovering, and added, “I see someone was perhaps overzealous in their duties.”

Mitchell smiled weakly at him. “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” he said. “It’s all right,” he added, gesturing to his friends to relax. 

“That’s a misquote, actually,” said the chaplain, also relaxing. “What Twain actually wrote was, ‘The report of my death was an exaggeration.’ But I think the other sounds better.” 

Mitchell smiled. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

“Since I’m here,” the chaplain said, “I can lead you in a prayer, if you would like?”

“Ah, no, that’s…not a very good idea,” George began. “He—we—um—”

“Thank you,” Mitchell cut in, before George could say anything very strange. “I—my relationship with religion is…complicated. I’d rather not.”

“Of course. I’ll leave you to your…” He looked around at the four of them, obviously uncertain of what to make of the four friends.

“His family,” Annie said.

“Of course,” the chaplain said again, his voice kind. “Well, please feel free to come by the chapel, should any of you wish to talk,” he said, and left.

When he had gone, George resumed his search and found the controller that regulated Mitchell’s morphine drip. He pressed the button a few times. A moment later Mitchell relaxed visibly.

“Better?” Annie asked, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah.” He blinked a few times, his eyelids growing heavy.

“Good.” She bent and kissed his forehead. “Go to sleep. We’ll be right here.”

“You should sleep, too.” He turned to Loki. “Especially you. If you’re going to be casting spells and going to Asgard tomorrow, you should…” His eyes slid shut. He opened them with difficulty, blinking heavily. “You should sleep.” 

“I am fine,” Loki assured him. “I will sleep a little here.” He sent another thin tendril of magic toward him. As he had expected, he met no resistance. It was only the healing spell that could not affect him.

Mitchell’s eyes closed. He forced them open long enough to glare at Loki. “I know what you’re doing,” he mumbled.

Loki patted his knee. “I know you know,” he said. “Rest. All will be well.” 

Mitchell’s eyes closed, and he slept.

~*~

By the morning, Mitchell’s was a little better, but he was still weak, and in a great deal of pain. It was only with the help of a few well-placed memory charms, some magical alterations to Mitchell’s patient record, and a glamour to conceal the fact that he could not walk unassisted, that his housemates were able to check him out of the hospital and return home to the pink house on the terrace.

He needed both Loki and George’s help navigating the stairs up to his room. George went beside him, supporting him with an arm around his waist while Mitchell clutched his shoulder. Loki walked behind with a hand braced on Mitchell’s back, and Annie kept Scamp and the kittens out from underfoot. By the time they got upstairs, he was sweating and trembling with pain, and George and Loki half-carried him the rest of the way to his room. 

He collapsed gratefully onto his bed and let his friends pull his shoes off and arrange his pillows and blankets while he closed his eyes and tried to breathe around the burning ache in his chest. Mitchell didn’t need to breathe, but he found it soothing; it gave his mind something to focus on, though he thought longingly of the morphine drip he had left behind at the hospital. That in itself was a compelling argument for his remaining there, but Loki had been worried about their vulnerability there, and none of them wanted the questions Mitchell’s condition would raise. Everyone in Bristol who cared to read a newspaper or watch television knew about Loki’s not-so-secret identity, but Mitchell suspected that the general populace would not be so welcoming of vampires and werewolves among them.

When he opened his eyes again, Annie was standing over him, holding out a glass of water in one hand and one of the pain tablets from the hospital in the other. Mitchell took it. Owing to their deceptions, the medicine wasn’t very strong, but it was better than nothing.

Annie took the glass back and set it on the bedside table. “How do you feel?” she asked, perching on the edge of the bed.

“Like I just ran a marathon,” he replied, “and then got run over by a fleet of lorries.” Mitchell did his best to smile, but without much success; his friends only looked more worried. He patted Annie’s arm. “I’m all right,” he assured her. “As much as I can be.”

“I need to ask you something,” George said suddenly. He had been quiet for most of the morning, worried and thoughtful. When the three of them turned to look at him, he twisted his hands together uncomfortably. “I think I need to tell Nina about all of this,” he blurted out, then went on before any of them could respond, “She’s involved, now, isn’t she? She’s involved with me, and…I love her, and I want her to know—” He broke off and turned to Loki. “I don’t want you doing the memory thing on her. It’s not—she deserves to know what’s going on. But this affects all of you, too, so I wanted to ask—”

“George,” Mitchell cut in gently. He smiled at him affectionately. “Of course you should tell Nina. I’ve said so from the beginning, haven’t I? I’m just sorry this had to be the thing that pushed you to do it.”

“Oh.” George said. “Right. Good.” He turned to Loki. “You’re going to Asgard?”

Loki nodded. “In a little while. I will set wards on the house, first.”

“And eat something,” Annie put in. She looked up at him, her nose wrinkling. “And take a shower.”

Mitchell caught Loki’s eye and they shared a smile, until a wave of pain made Mitchell clench his jaw and inhale sharply.

Loki sobered quickly, his eyebrows drawing down with concern. “The medicine is not working very well, is it?” he asked.

Mitchell took another deep breath and forced his body to relax. “I’m all right,” he said, sounding unconvincing to his own ears.

Loki studied him for a moment more, and then asked, gently, “Would you like me to spell you to sleep again?”

Mitchell clamped down on the sudden sob of relief that welled up in his throat. He nodded, unable to speak around the lump in his throat. Annie squeezed his fingers.

“It’ll be all right,” she assured him. Mitchell smiled weakly.

“I will find a way to help you,” Loki said.

Mitchell nodded, and allowed himself to hold on to hope that Loki could. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice ragged.

Loki closed his eyes, a look of concentration on his face. He moved his right hand, and a moment later Mitchell felt a warmth and heaviness spread over him. The pain in his chest receded. He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. Beside him, he felt Annie shift, and then the soothing sensation of her smoothing his hair. A warm hand cradled his head for a moment.

“I will wake you when I return,” Loki told him, his voice sounding distant. Mitchell thought he mumbled something in reply, but he wasn’t sure. He let the warmth of Loki’s spell pull him under.

~*~

“He will sleep until I lift the spell,” Loki said, when Mitchell lay quiet.

Annie nodded. “I think that’s best.” She smoothed Mitchell’s hair one last time, tucked the blankets closer around him, and stood. “He can rest, until we figure out what to do. Come on,” she continued, with determined cheerfulness, ushering Loki and George toward the door. “I’ll get some breakfast started. I bet you’re both starving.”

George hung back. “I think I’d like to sit with Mitchell for a little while,” he said. “I just—” His voice caught. He took a deep breath and went on, “I want to sit with him for a little while,” he said again.

Loki reached out and squeezed his friend’s shoulder. “He is resting comfortably,” he said, wishing to reassure him. “I promise you, he is in no pain right now.”

George glanced down at Mitchell, whose face was peaceful in repose. He nodded. “Thanks,” he said. Loki squeezed his shoulder again, and he and Annie retreated, closing the door softly behind them.

Loki _was_ starving, but he was more anxious about leaving the house unprotected, so while Annie began preparing breakfast, he set about establishing his wards. He had spent a great deal of time thinking the matter over after his encounter with Herrick the night before, and had decided a simple approach was best. Accordingly, he set two spells on the house: The first was targeted; though he thought he could rely on the magical barrier to uninvited entry by vampires to keep Herrick out, he augmented it with a spell keyed to the magical signature the vampire had left behind. The second was a glamour, which would make the house undetectable to anyone seeking to harm its occupants.

When he explained the protections to Annie and George, over a plate of eggs and toast and a mug of heavily sugared tea, Annie frowned.

“What, like, it’ll be invisible?” Annie asked. “Won’t that be…I don’t know, obvious? Like a big giant hole where a house should be?”

Loki shook his head. “No, it will still be here, it will simply be impossible to find, even if they are looking right at it.”

“It’s a perception filter,” George said. “Not invisible, just…unnoticeable.” He had joined them in the kitchen not long after Loki finished his spell-casting. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he seemed calmer, and he tucked into his breakfast.

Loki nodded. “I do not know what a perception filter is, but that is the basic idea, yes.”

George sighed. “We really have been remiss in your cultural education, Loki. It’s from _Doctor Who._ As soon as this mess is sorted, we’ll have to start watching it.”

Annie looked pained. “Do we have to?”

“It’s practically a British cultural institution!” George retorted.

“That doesn’t make it _good._ ” Annie turned to Loki. “George is just upset that Mitchell and I won’t watch _Doctor Who._ with him.”

“That’s because you’re _wrong,_ ” George said.

Loki smiled. He leaned across the table and said conspiratorially to George, “We shall have to take over the lounge one night and force them to watch it with us.”

“Oh, no, please!” Annie moaned, covering her face.

“It’s a plan,” George agreed, and they shook hands on it.

~*~

It was late afternoon when Loki returned from Asgard, climbing down from the branches of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, into the back garden of the house in Totterdown under cover of a glamour. He paused for a moment before he went inside, breathing in the cool damp March air. The sun was already beginning to drop behind the houses on the terrace, its rays touching the rooftops as it did.

Annie practically hurled herself at him when he went inside, her greeting more appropriate to an absence of several weeks than several hours. Loki held her close for long moments, glad for the contact, before he reluctantly let her go and stepped back, taking in both George and her with his gaze.

His visit to Asgard had been neither wholly successful nor wholly unsuccessful. He had found little to help with the problem of Herrick, despite hours of searching the library. As for Mitchell…

“What did the healers say?” George asked.

Loki took a deep breath. “There is a way,” he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annie's opinions about _Doctor Who_ in no way reflect my own.
> 
> The exchange with Mark the hospital chaplain is adapted from canon, as is Mitchell's explanation about why the donated blood in the hospital isn't very effective.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some canon retcon here, as I've been thinking through how this series fits into canon events. The events that Mitchell recounts in this chapter are more or less true to canon, with a few small revisions to account for the impact that Loki's arrival made on Mitchell.
> 
> As I've been rewatching BH, I've really been struck by how George and Annie often treat Mitchell. In season 2 especially, but also at times in season 1, they're so wrapped up in their own problems that they often don't notice what's going on with him, and when they finally do notice, their responses are often to shame him. I'm starting to deal with that a little in this chapter, though will be more later on.
> 
> The total chapter count is a (very!) rough estimate, but I wanted to give readers a sense of how long this will be. Many thanks to those who have been reading!

Mitchell’s sleeping form made a dark shape on the bed, under a pile of blankets in the dim room. Loki switched on the lamp on the bedside table and dragged the wooden chair from the corner by the wardrobe so he could sit.

Mitchell stirred as Loki lifted the sleeping spell, blinking awake and squinting at him. “Hey,” he said, his voice rough with sleep. He glanced at the window, a strip of twilight sky visible through the gap in the closed curtains. “Have I slept all day?”

Loki nodded. “I thought it would be best,” he said. “You could rest while I was in Asgard.”

At that, Mitchell’s expression turned so expectant and cautiously hopeful that Loki had to take a deep breath before he could answer the unspoken question on his friend’s face.

“You need blood,” he said simply.

Mitchell deflated. He dropped his head back on the pillow and turned his face toward the wall. “I know,” he said. He swallowed hard. “I thought—I hoped—but—” He sighed. “I knew.”

Loki ached at the hopelessness in Mitchell’s voice. He went on, steeling himself, “Your body can’t make new blood, but…mine can.”

For a long moment, Mitchell did not respond. Then, slowly, he turned back toward him, his eyes wide in horror. His mouth worked soundlessly, as if he could not quite grasp what Loki was suggesting. He shook his head, still unable to utter a sound. 

“Mitchell,” Loki began, reaching for him.

“N-no.” Mitchell said. He edged away from him, breathing in little hitching gasps. “I—I can’t. I’ll kill you.”

“Mitchell—”

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?”

“I do, actually.” Loki caught one of his hands and pressed it between both of his. “I would not ask if there were any other option. And you will not kill me. I am not human, remember?”

“You can still be killed by a vampire!”

“Indeed. But it will not be you.” He leaned forward. “Listen to me. I am—whatever I am, my natural life is a great deal longer than a human’s. I am nine hundred years old, and by Aesir or Jotun reckoning, I am still quite young. If it is true that what you feed on is the—the life associated with the blood you drink, then I believe—and the healers at Asgard agree—that my blood is a great deal more potent than a human’s. A small amount would be sufficient to restore you.”

Mitchell shook his head again, tears welling in his eyes. “I can’t. I couldn’t control myself. When I’m like that—” He broke off, looking away. “Please, Loki, don’t ask me to do this.”

Loki sighed. He had known this would be difficult. George and Annie had been hard enough to convince, even when he explained the precautions he had taken, but Mitchell… 

He was asking Mitchell to let out the darkness inside himself, which he worked so hard to control, and unleash it on his friend. Never mind that Loki trusted him to keep it under control; only Mitchell knew firsthand the violence and the hunger of his vampire nature. Loki could only guess how deeply he feared it. 

He released Mitchell’s hand and sat back, running a hand through his hair. “There is no other option,” he repeated quietly. 

“There must be.” Mitchell looked around, as if the answer lay in his bookcase or his record player. “I can—I’ll—”

“You will what?” Loki cut him off, impatient despite himself. “You will remain so weak you can barely walk on your own? You will hide here while Herrick picks off our friends and allies in an attempt to draw you out? Or perhaps you will turn yourself over to him in the hope that he will leave the rest of us alone if you do?” Mitchell flinched. Loki went on, relentlessly, “It is selfishness, and self-pity. As long as you are in this condition, we are all in greater danger than we would be otherwise.”

Mitchell looked away again. After a moment he replied, “I know.” 

Loki reached for his hand again. “I am sorry I could not find another way.”

“Yeah.” Mitchell was silent for several long moments.

“You know,” Mitchell said at length, “when you first got here, I was…pretty messed up.”

Loki blinked, surprised, as much at the turn in the conversation as by Mitchell’s suddenly thoughtful tone. He thought back to his first days in the little pink house. Much of that time was a blur in his memory, but he recalled Mitchell’s kindness, his gentle practicality, and his frank honesty about what he was and what he had done; nothing at all to indicate that he had been, as he said, “pretty messed up.” “I did not know,” he replied.

“No, I wouldn’t expect you to.” Mitchell smiled. “You were pretty messed up, yourself.” He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, his face faraway, before he continued. “There was this boy. Bernie. He lived across the way. Sweet kid. He got picked on a lot, and one day I stepped in when some other kids on the street were bullying him. His mum saw, and she came outside, and after that I began looking after him sometimes, after school or on the weekends when his mum had to work.

“He was twelve, old enough to look after himself, but… I think it made him feel grown up, hanging around with George and me. His dad wasn’t around, and I think he had a hard time with the other kids his own age.” Loki made a sympathetic noise, and Mitchell smiled sadly. “He reminded me a lot of myself, when I was his age: In a big hurry to grow up, with no idea what that really meant.” He shook his head, looking wistful. “He asked me once, when I was his age, what I had wanted to be when I grew up, and I told him, ‘just happy.’ He looked at me like I was crazy. I tried to explain that there wasn’t much choice when I was growing up, but then I let slip that I had been in the army, and all he wanted to know was about the glamorous life of a soldier, and whether I had ever killed anyone.” His mouth twisted bitterly.

“What did you tell him?” Loki asked.

“I told him I had, and that I hoped he never did, because I have spent my life since regretting the lives I’ve taken.” He sighed. “The truth is, I was just the same when I was twelve. I thought going off to war would be an exciting adventure. It was only later that I realized that just being happy would do. I guess I hoped that I could help him see it sooner.

“And…being with him, it was like…” He paused, searching for words. “This one time, I had taken him bowling, and he slipped on the lane and cut his head when he fell. I saw the blood, and for a moment I thought—I thought I might do something terrible, but—there was nothing. The thirst for blood, it just wasn’t there. It was like the human me, the real me, won out.”

His voice had gone thick, and he fell silent, blinking rapidly. After a moment, he went on, “There was…a misunderstanding. I had loaned him a DVD. I sent him up here to get it, and I didn’t think to check the case. It…I told you about Lauren?” Loki nodded. “She had sent me a recording of her, having sex with a man and then killing him.” Loki drew a sharp breath. Mitchell continued, avoiding his eyes, “I don’t know why I kept it, but…I couldn’t throw it away. It was like I had to keep it. Herrick and the rest, they wanted me back, they wanted me to see what I was missing. For Lauren, I think, it was more personal. She blamed me. She wanted me to know what I’d made her. God.” He shook his head, his fist clenching in the blankets. “If I had just thrown it away. How could I have been so _stupid_?”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Loki said.

“Wasn’t it?” Mitchell asked. His tone was angry, bitter, but it was turned inward. “George and Annie certainly thought so, and they weren’t wrong.”

Loki shook his head. “It is like my Asgardian clothes, the ones I was wearing when I fell. They…represent a part of me. It is a part I do not like very much, the part that was so angry and bitter and lonely that I wanted to kill my brother and destroy an entire civilization, but…it is a part of me.” He shrugged, and went on, “It is as if, by keeping them in that box in the cellar, I can keep that part of me hidden away, under control. But if I try to throw it away, it may appear somewhere else, unbidden, and I will be unprepared.”

Mitchell stared at him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I don’t know that I ever thought about it like that, but…yeah. I can’t deny that part of myself.” He swallowed hard and admitted, “I watched it. More than once. It was…somehow horrible and alluring at the same time. I hated it, and…I had to watch it again.” He avoided Loki’s eyes.

“Anyway, I had it stashed in my DVDs, and that was the one Bernie took. He saw it, and his mother saw it—they didn’t watch the whole thing, obviously, or we would have been in a whole other world of trouble, but—it was enough. She assumed I was…” He trailed off.

“A predator,” Loki supplied, around the knot of anguish that had formed in his throat on behalf of his friend.

“Yeah. Some of the neighbors got wind of it, and for a little while, George and I couldn’t walk outside without being spat on and shouted at. I think we would have left, if it weren’t for Annie. She couldn’t leave the house, in those days, and we couldn’t leave her. 

“Bernie knew it was a mistake, but his mum wouldn’t listen to him, she just assumed he was protecting his abuser, and of course that meant she wouldn’t listen to me, either. Bernie came over one night, about a week later. He’d snuck out, to come over and apologize to me, because he’d realized it was the wrong DVD right away, but he kept watching. It was summer, and it wasn’t late, so there were people out, and pretty soon there was a crowd gathered. Bernie was trying to explain that it had been a mistake, but no one was listening.” Mitchell wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “People were shouting, and Bernie’s mum called him home. She was so angry, I think he was afraid to disobey. He ran into the street and—there was a car coming—”

A sob choked off his words. Loki closed his eyes in sympathy. “Oh, Mitchell,” he murmured. “I am sorry.” The words were inadequate to convey his sorrow, both for the loss of the child Mitchell had befriended, and for the shame it was so clear he still carried for what had happened. He stroked Mitchell’s shoulder.

“I tried to get him out of the way, but—I wasn’t fast enough. It hit both of us. He was in a coma for a week before he died.” He looked away, wiping his eyes again. “I almost—I thought I could save him. I almost offered—but after Lauren, I couldn’t.”

Loki squeezed his shoulder.

“His mum moved away, after. She put things right with the neighbors, before she left, but…” He let out a shuddering sigh. “I was so angry. I was devastated.” He looked at Loki. “George and Annie don’t know this, but…I almost went back to Herrick, after. I was still thinking about it, when you came.

“I just…wasn’t as sure as I had been about embracing humanity. I felt…I had worked so hard to be like them, to get clean, to fit in, and then they acted like monsters. They saw a mob and just hopped on, without bothering to try to find out the truth. I was starting to think it wasn’t worth trying. And then you showed up, falling out of the sky in your strange clothes—” he laughed suddenly.” And your _bizarrely_ polite manners, and looking at Annie like a lost puppy—”

Loki blinked. “My manners?” _A puppy?_

Mitchell went on, “and you were so lost, and so sad, and wanted so badly to be _good_ , despite everything. You made me want to try again.”

Loki stared at him, surprised and moved. “I did?”

Mitchell chuckled and wiped his eyes again. “Yeah, you did.”

“Thank you, for telling me this,” Loki said. He hesitated. “I am not sure that I have ever said to you that you did much the same for me. When I met you, I learned that…not all monsters are monstrous, that one has choices. That _I_ had choices. I do not know what would have become of me if I had landed anywhere else.”

They sat in silence for several moments. At length, Mitchell swallowed hard and said, his voice ragged, “Every time I do it, it takes me farther away from humanity.”

“Then we will pull you back,” Loki promised. “I believe that you will stop yourself before you take too much from me, but if you cannot, if you lose control—I cannot use magic to heal you, but I can use it to defend myself if need be. I will not let you go too far. Will you trust me to do that?”

For a long moment Mitchell made no reply, and then, haltingly, he nodded.

Relieved, Loki let out a long, slow breath. Mitchell remained silent, and Loki realized then that he had not thought beyond convincing him, to what would happen next. He swallowed his sudden apprehension and asked, hesitantly, “What would you like me to do?”

Mitchell pushed himself up carefully, so he was sitting propped up on his pillows. He didn’t look at him as he said, “Give me your arm.”

Loki unzipped his hooded sweatshirt and shrugged out of it. The cool air prickled his bare arms. He extended his left arm, palm up, leaving his right free for spell casting.

Mitchell took hold of Loki’s wrist with one hand, and his elbow with other. His hands were cold. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if steeling himself.

When he opened them again, they had gone black.

Loki expected pain, but after the initial tearing of flesh, he felt only pressure. And then a curious sensation, like a hand was reaching into him, grasping something that lay just behind his heart, and _pulling_. He gasped, instinctively trying to free his arm out of Mitchell’s grasp, but he held him fast. He drew another breath, forcing himself to remain calm, to assess his own response, to wait. He breathed deeply, fighting his body’s desire to hyperventilate. Inhale, exhale. 

The pull behind his heart grew stronger, strong enough to take his breath away. Loki’s vision began to grow dark around the edges. He blinked. _Keep breathing._ The room grew dim. He began to gather his power, to stun Mitchell before he lost consciousness himself—

Before he could, Mitchell released him with a cry. He flung Loki away so hard he was propelled out of his chair and crashed into the wardrobe.

Loki lay where he had fallen on the floor, breathing hard and blinking spots from his vision. After a few moments he pushed himself up to sit with his back against the wardrobe door, cradling his arm against his chest. He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the restorative he had brought back from Asgard, thumbed the cork out of the phial, and gulped it down. Warmth spread through him, and the blackness at the edges of his vision receded. He covered the wound in his arm with his other hand, closed his eyes, and concentrated. The skin closed under his fingers.

When he had caught his breath, Loki asked, softly, “Mitchell?”

He lay curled in a tight, miserable ball on the bed, facing away from him. When he didn’t respond, Loki called his name again.

Mitchell made a little gulping sound. “I’m fine,” he said.

Loki got slowly to his feet. “Are you certain?”

“No.” The gulp was more like a sob, this time. “But I will be. Please go. I—I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“All right,” Loki said, but instead of leaving, he approached the bed again, reached out and laid a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder.

Mitchell flinched. He curled even tighter, hiding his face. “ _Loki,_ ” he said, his voice thick and muffled, “ _Please._ Go.”

Loki squeezed his shoulder. “All right,” he repeated, but he hesitated, trying to find words to reassure him. “What Annie said, last night at the hospital,” he told him. “We are your family, Mitchell. No matter what.”

There was no mistaking the sob, this time. Loki squeezed his friend’s shoulder again, and left him alone.

***

As the door closed behind Loki, Mitchell let out another shuddering sob, equal parts shame and relief. He felt warm, vital, in a way he had not since—

Since Lauren. The tears that welled up in his eyes were hot against his skin. He balled his hands into fists and punched the mattress, letting out an incoherent cry of anger and frustration. That Herrick was back; that Herrick, though he had failed to kill him, had succeeded in forcing Mitchell to violate the bargain he had made with himself, to drink from _a friend_ —

“Fuck,” he sobbed into the pillow. “ _Fuck._ Fuck.” And then words—such as they were—failed him, and he let himself cry until he had no tears left, not sure if he was more ashamed or angry or relieved: that he had agreed to Loki’s suggestion, that Herrick had driven him to it, that he had managed to keep hold of himself and release Loki before he killed him. A bit of all three, he thought, once he had exhausted himself; he lay staring at the wall, feeling blood and tears drying on his face.

He felt exhausted, but also…better; rather more like he had been in a particularly violent bar fight the night before than staked through the heart and nearly killed. And, he realized, he felt clearer than he would have thought possible after drinking. Loki’s blood was—as he had guessed—potent, and it left Mitchell feeling stronger, but not riding the high he did when he drank from a human ( _When I drank from Lauren_ ); none of the the soaring forgetfulness that was so alluring, when the memories became too much.

Instead he felt—calm. Warm, rather like he had drunk a glass of fine Scotch (though he would not tell Loki that), and clear-headed enough to listen to the internal voice that pointed out that he had controlled himself, that Loki was fine, and that his friend had been right: Mitchell needed to be strong in order to face Herrick, and whoever—or whatever—was behind his resurrection. 

And he was clear enough to remember, and to wonder at, Loki’s response to what Mitchell had told him about the DVD. He remembered, with painful clarity, George and Annie’s disgust when they found out he had kept it, to the point that he could not admit to them that he had watched it, that, shamefully, he had enjoyed it. He had expected the same from Loki, when he came to to that part of the story, but instead, Loki had…understood.

Or if he had not understood, precisely, he had not judged him, and even with that knowledge, had offered his blood to heal him, and had called him “family” with no reservations.

_No matter what._

Mitchell pushed himself upright and swung his legs around so that he sat on the edge of the bed. He carefully removed the bandage from his chest to examine the wound. It was still deep, still painful, but already it seemed smaller, ringed with pink scar tissue. He probed the skin around it, winced at its tenderness, and resolved to leave it alone. It would be several days, maybe even a full week, before he was fully recovered, but, he thought as he made his way carefully to the bathroom, being able to stand and walk on his own—even using the walls for support—was a marked improvement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell's line about how he responded to Bernie cutting his head at the bowling alley, and how drinking blood takes him away from humanity, are both adapted from canon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are many feels, and glimmers of a plot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer update this time, but I couldn't find a good way to break this chapter up. Fluff, feels, and a tiny bit of plot. Plus, more canon characters!
> 
> Since I'm weaving in a fair amount of dialogue from canon throughout this fic, I'll just put a blanket disclaimer that any lines you recognize from the show belong to the BH writers, and I'm just borrowing them.

Loki let out a sigh of relief when he heard Mitchell’s footsteps in the hall upstairs, and then the sound of the bath running.

“Oh, good,” Annie breathed beside him, looking toward the ceiling.

The three of them were sitting in the lounge, pretending to watch television. Loki felt tired; even with the Asgardian restorative he had taken, he would still need time to recover from the amount of blood and…he did not know how to think of it as anything but energy, or, well, _life,_ that he had given to Mitchell. But he did not want to retreat to the box room until he had seen and talked with Mitchell, assured his friend that he was all right and harbored no ill will. And, he admitted to himself, he did not want to go to bed with the image of Mitchell as he had last seen him behind his eyes, curled in on himself with shame at what he had done, even though they had both known the necessity; even though Mitchell had, as Loki predicted, controlled himself and not taken more from him than he needed.

Mitchell appeared in the entryway to the lounge a little while later, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his damp curls dripping water onto his shoulders. He held on to the wall to steady himself, and smiled tentatively at them. “Hi,” he said. He glanced at the television. “What are we watching?”

Annie let out a joyous squeak and bounded across the room to enfold him in an embrace. Loki, following behind, saw Mitchell’s surprise, and then relief, as he slowly returned the hug, and then Loki and George were hugging him from either side and Mitchell didn’t need the wall to hold him upright, since found himself in the center of the embrace, supported against his friends’ bodies. He let out a little sob, wrapped his arms around them as far as they would go and held on.

“It’s really good to see you on your feet, mate,” George said when they separated at last.

Mitchell wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist. “It’s good to _be_ on my feet again,” he replied fervently, and then wobbled. He reached out for the wall to steady himself, but George put himself in the way, wrapped his friend’s arm around his shoulder, and helped to the couch. “Thanks,” he murmured as he sat, seeming embarrassed that he needed the help.

“You’ll be all right now?” George asked.

Mitchell nodded. “Yeah. It’ll still take some time, but yeah.” He looked at Loki, who had sat down on his other side. “Thank you.”

Wordlessly, Loki squeezed his hand.

Annie knelt in front of him and took his other hand, saying, “Mitchell, please don’t be angry with Loki, or with George and me. We didn’t like it, either, but it was the best way, and—and we want you healthy, not just because we need you to help us fight Herrick. We don’t like to see you in pain, or—or frightened, or—”

Mitchell squeezed her hand. His eyes were bright again. “It’s all right,” he said. “Really. I understand.” He looked around at his friends. “If there’s anyone to be angry at, it’s Herrick, and you’re right.” He looked back at Annie. “I need to be strong to fight him, and whatever brought him back.”

Loki let out a sigh of relief at Mitchell’s words. “I am glad to see you directing your anger appropriately,” he said, allowing a hint of a grin to enter his expression. “After I left you, I wondered if I should return with the spray bottle.”

“You wouldn’t!” Mitchell said, in tones of mock horror.

“Do not be so sure. I am getting tired of being the sole recipient of water to the face in this household.” He sobered, continuing, “I am sorry, for what I said.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Mitchell patted Loki’s leg. “I needed to hear it, and you were right. Besides, that’s what mates do.”

“What?”

“They tell each other the truth.” He looked around at all three of them. “And can I just say,” he went on, wrapping his arms around George and Loki’s shoulders and leaning forward to include Annie in the embrace, “that I am incredibly lucky to have you as my friends?”

“Mitchell.” Annie looked away, covering her face. “Stop it, you’re going to make me cry.”

“Well, it’s true, and I don’t think I say it enough. Thank you, for—for saving my life. In more ways than you know.”

Annie sat up on her knees and wrapped her arms around Loki and George, and they all pressed their foreheads together. For a few minutes the four of them remained there, half-laughing, half-crying, and no one wanting to give up contact with one another.

Eventually, Annie shook her head, wiped her eyes, and stood up. “Enough,” she said. “This is getting silly.”

Mitchell snorted. “Things got silly a long time ago.”

Annie glared at him, but it was somewhat ruined by her smile. “Who wants tea?”

Once they had all reclaimed their original places, with steaming cups of Earl Grey for George, Mitchell, and Loki, Mitchell turned to Loki and asked, “Did you find anything out about why or how Herrick might be back, while you were in Asgard?”

Loki ran a hand through his hair. “Enough to know that there is a very powerful sorcerer involved, using very dark magic, but…not very much that is specific, I am afraid. There is a long list of creatures like vampires across the Nine Realms, but little that we know about them seems to apply to Midgardian vampires. I think we should consult with our friend Catherine Bennett.” He turned to George. “You said that, in writing his famous vampire novel, Bram Stoker consulted the vampire lore of his day. Perhaps that would also be a good place for us to look?”

George looked thoughtful. “Most of it’s probably superstition, but it’s worth a shot,” he admitted. “Though I’m not sure very many of his sources would be available through the public library. We might have to do a bit of digging.”

“In the meantime, though, you should really read Dracula,” Mitchell put in. At his friends’ skeptical expressions, Mitchell said, “What? It’s a really good book. Way better than any of the films. Besides, it might give us some ideas. _The Once and Future King_ helped us with Mordred,” he added, referring to an earlier adventure—was it nearly two years before?

“True,” George agreed. “I’ve got a copy upstairs, I’ll go get it for you.”

George was still in his room when a knock sounded at the door. Mitchell looked at Annie and Loki, then at the door. “Are we expecting anyone?”

“Not that I am aware,” Loki said slowly, getting to his feet. “But the glamour that I set earlier remains on the house. No one who means us any harm could even find it.”

“Is it foolproof?” Mitchell asked grimly.

Loki didn’t answer. He peered out the windows at the top of the door, and then relaxed and opened it. “Hello, Nina,” he said.

“Hi,” Nina said, looking abashed. “Um, George rang me, and…I thought I’d just come by.” She held up a brown paper sack.“And I thought I’d bring you boys some dinner.” 

“Thank you,” Loki said, stepping back so she could come in. “That is very kind of you. It has…been a very long two days.”

Nina’s expression turned sympathetic. “I can imagine. It’s just a takeaway, I can’t cook—well, some things, spaghetti, eggs, you know—” She pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I do that when I’m nervous. Hello, Annie,” she said, looking past Loki into the lounge. “And—Mitchell,” she added, in surprise. “You’re…looking surprisingly well.”

Mitchell smiled at her over the back of the sofa. “I’ve been better,” he said. “Thank you for bringing the food. George is just upstairs, he should be right down.”

A moment later, George came up short on the lower landing. “Nina.” He sounded uncertain whether he should be more alarmed or pleased to see her.

“I should have called first,” Nina said, as George spluttered. “I got your message, and I thought I’d just come over.” She held the paper sack up again. “After the couple of days you’ve had, I thought you probably weren’t in the mood to cook.” When George only continued opening and closing his mouth soundlessly, she pushed the paper sack into Loki’s hands and started backing toward the door. “I should probably go, anyway, I’ve got—I’ll ring you later—”

“No!” George finally managed. “No, no, it’s all right, um—” He glanced at Mitchell, who mouthed, tell her, then smiled widely at Nina when she followed George’s gaze.

“Stay,” Mitchell told her. “Join us.” He glanced at George, who was beginning to look apoplectic, and said gently, “Maybe Nina can help you get some plates. In the kitchen. And you can—explain.”

Nina raised her eyebrows, looking from Mitchell back to George.

It took George another moment to regain command of his tongue. Then he said, in a high voice, “Yes, thank you, Mitchell, that is a very good idea,” and herded Nina into the kitchen.

The privacy of the kitchen was mostly an illusion, since Loki and Mitchell both had very sharp hearing, but it was still easier to talk there, even if George knew they weren’t really alone. He stood leaning against the fridge for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. He had been imagining having this conversation with Nina almost since the day he met her, but despite the many hours he had spent imagining what he would say and how she would react, he did not feel prepared. Not in the least.

“So.” Nina dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. “I suppose you’re going to explain how Mitchell is apparently up and about, after getting stabbed in the chest yesterday? I mean, how is that even possible?”

“Yes,” George said. He sat down across from her and took her hands. “First, I just want to say, Nina, that I wanted to tell you all of this. I’ve been planning to. I’m sorry it has to be under these circumstances.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What circumstances are those?” she asked.

George grimaced. “Dangerous ones.” He paused, trying to decide where to begin. “You know,” he said at last, “the scars on my shoulder?” He reached up and placed his hand over them, his fingers splayed out to trace the ridges that curved over his shoulder to his chest.

Nina nodded. “You said you fell through a patio door.”

“I lied to you.” George took a deep breath. “About three years ago, I was on holiday. I went out for a walk one night, and I was attacked by a werewolf.”

“A…?” Nina laughed incredulously. “George, are you—?” She broke off and studied his face. “Oh, my God, you’re serious.”

He nodded, his eyes on their linked hands. “On the next full moon, I walked into the woods, and I…changed.” It all sounded so deceptively simple. It felt strange to him that he should be able to use so few words to tell what had happened to him. Though, of course, words couldn’t capture it. There were no words for it, none at all.

For long moments, Nina was silent. Then she repeated, “Oh, my God, you’re really serious.” She sat back in her chair. “And, Mitchell, is he…?”

“No.” George shook his head. “He’s a vampire.”

“A vampire!” Nina leaned across the table and hissed, “George! Does that mean he _kills people_?”

“No!” George took a breath and modulated his tone before he went on, “No, he’s…on the wagon, he calls it. He doesn’t kill people.” _Anymore._ “He doesn’t even drink blood, he eats normal food.” _Most of the time._

“Well, that’s a relief.” She sat back again, running her hands through her hair. “So…you’re a werewolf, Mitchell is a vampire, and you live with a sorcerer from outer space.” She frowned, thinking. “There’s the beginning of a joke in there somewhere. A vampire, a werewolf, and a wizard walk into a bar…” She stood and began opening drawers, looking for silverware.

George took a stack of plates down from the shelf over the sink. “And Annie’s a ghost,” he added.

Nina paused, in the act of reaching into the drawer of flatware for a handful of forks. “Of course she is.”

***

“Well,” Nina said brightly, when she and George returned to the lounge. “Vampires and werewolves and ghosts, oh my!” She glanced at Loki. “And…alien sorcerers, but I already knew about that.”

“That’s us,” Annie chirped, repeating the words she had said to Loki one long-ago afternoon: “Things that go bump in the night.”

When they had all settled with their food, Nina asked, “So, Mitchell, how long have you been a vampire?” then immediately went on, “No, I’m sorry, that was rude, wasn’t it? It’s like asking someone’s gran how old she is. Not that you’re like someone’s gran.” She screwed up her face and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“It’s all right, Nina,” Mitchell chuckled. “You’re curious. I would be, too. I’ve been a vampire for about a hundred years.”

“A hundred—” Nina choked on the bite of curry she had taken. George had to pound her on the back. “So,” she finally managed, when she had caught her breath, “a bit older than someone’s gran.”

“A bit,” Mitchell agreed, good-naturedly.

“Are you all right?” Annie asked her, before Nina could ask more difficult questions. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I mean, I didn’t believe in any of this stuff, and then I started living it! It’s like, I died and woke up in an episode of _Buffy_.”

“Are there such things as vampire slayers?” Nina asked, in a tone that suggested she was no longer sure what would constitute a stupid question.

“Thank goodness, no,” Mitchell replied.

“Ooooooh!” Annie’s face lit up. She bounced on the couch cushion and hit Mitchell’s shoulder several times in excitement. “But if there were, you would be like Angel!”

“Annie!” Mitchell winced, moving out of her reach. “Ow, don’t do that. I’m injured. Which one is Angel?”

“He’s a good vampire, and he and Buffy fall in love, and then…” She frowned. “Um, are tragically unable to be together.” She brightened. “But she doesn’t kill him.” Frowned again. “Except for that one time, but he comes back, and gets his own show, where he’s a vampire detective living in Los Angeles.”

“How very reassuring,” Mitchell said drily. “Let’s get back to reality, shall we? Nina, how are you taking all of this?”

“I’m…” Nina paused. “I don’t really know.” She looked around at them. “I’m still not sure I believe it.” She turned to George. “I mean, you’re not really given to wild stories, and I can’t think of any other explanation for Mitchell’s recovery that would sound _less_ crazy. And I’ve already accepted aliens amongst us,” she went on, nodding to Loki. “I don’t suppose monsters are so far a stretch.”

Loki flinched inwardly when she said “monsters,” but if George or Mitchell were bothered by the epithet, neither of them showed it. Instead, Mitchell asked her, “Do you have a mirror?”

Nina blinked, then went to get her purse, where she rummaged around in it and produced a compact mirror. Mitchell beckoned to her. “Bring it over here. Stand behind me.” He took it, opened it, and held it so that, from where she was standing, Nina should have seen both of their reflections in it. Instead, she saw only only herself, and an unoccupied corner of the sofa. She inhaled sharply, and had to grab onto the backrest to steady herself. 

“You don’t have a reflection,” she said, her voice strangled.

Mitchell closed the mirror and handed it back to her. “No. Our image can’t be captured. I don’t show up on film, either.” Nina took the mirror and made her way, a little unsteadily, back to where she had been sitting.

“Well,” she said. “That’s…convincing.”

Mitchell said kindly, “I’m really sorry you had to find out about all this under these circumstances.”

“Yes,” Nina said. “George mentioned ‘dangerous circumstances.’ What does that mean, exactly?”

Mitchell put his empty bowl on the coffee table and sat back. “The man who staked me is a vampire named William Herrick. He used to be the leader of the vampires in Bristol. A couple years ago the four of us were involved in…deposing him.”

“We killed him,” George clarified.

“And now he’s back. Is that even possible?” Nina asked.

“Apparently,” Loki replied. “I am still not sure why, or how. But it is clear, at least, that he wants revenge on us, and that puts our friends in danger. I am sorry.”

“Well,” Nina said. “That’s hardly your fault.” She smiled tightly. “And it’s not like I haven’t been in danger before.” She turned to George. “I think I’d like to go home, now.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Annie asked. “I mean, with Herrick—maybe it would better if you stayed here.”

Nina glanced around at them, looking suddenly trapped. “I’d really like to go home,” she said, a note of desperation in her voice. “I need to think, and be in my own space.”

Loki said quickly, “It is fine. Herrick cannot enter your home unless you invite him. There is no reason to think you will not be safe.

“Of course,” George said, getting to his feet. “I’ll take you.”

Loki stood as well. “Wait a moment, before you leave,” he said and he dashed up the stairs to the box room.

It took him a few minutes of hunting around before he found what he was looking for, and another of hurried spell-casting, before he returned downstairs and handed Nina a bracelet made of red and gold knotted threads.

Nina raised an eyebrow as she took it. “Is this…a friendship bracelet?” she asked, bemused.

“It is enchanted,” Loki explained. “It will alert me if you are in trouble. You don’t have to wear it, just keep it with you.”

George looked gratefully at Loki over Nina’s head while Nina thanked him. Her eyes glinted with amusement as she held the bracelet up and asked, “Gryffindor colors?”

Loki shrugged, abashed. “I had to make a guess,” he admitted.

“Ah,” Nina said. “Well, for future reference, I’m in Hufflepuff.”

“Are you really?” A wide smile spread over Loki’s face. “So am I!”

George made an exasperated noise. From the lounge, Mitchell called, “He cheats!” over Annie’s sudden giggles.

“I do not!” Loki said, though he had, in fact, learned the appropriate answers to the internet quiz to make sure he would always be Sorted into Hufflepuff. “Besides,” he went on reasonably, “if Harry Potter can ask that Sorting Hat to put him Gryffindor, why can I not ask it to put me in Hufflepuff?” 

“With Annie,” Mitchell added. A smile of comprehension dawned on Nina’s face, and Mitchell grinned at her, repeating in a stage whisper, “ _He cheats!_ ”

“Here,” Loki said to Nina, ignoring his friends. He held out his hand for the bracelet. When he handed it back to her, the stripes were yellow and black, for Hufflepuff.

“Impressive,” Nina commented, and tucked it into her pocket with smile..

“Well,” Annie said brightly when she and George had gone. “That went well.”

“About as well as it possibly could have,” Mitchell agreed. “I mean that without irony. That was a good idea, with the bracelet, Loki.”

Loki shrugged. “We can hardly all keep ourselves cooped up here,” he said. “I will do one for George, and for you, before you go back to work.”

Mitchell nodded, and then yawned. “And with that,” he said, “I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.” He caught sight of Annie’s worried expression, and patted her leg. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’m just going to need time, now.”

Wordlessly, Loki got up and offered his shoulder for support as Mitchell pushed himself carefully to the edge of the couch and stood. He was relieved to see how much stronger he was, and to see that he fell asleep quickly, with only the faintest touch of magic to help.

***

At the same time, not far away from the pink house in Totterdown, two men sat in a shabby flat in Hartcliffe.

“I said I would help lay troubled souls to rest, not abet a murder,” said the owner of the flat, a tired-looking man in his forties. He sat at a scuffed dining table with his head resting in his hand; the other was curled around a glass of cheap whiskey on the table in front of him. His name was Alan Cortez, and he had been hearing ghosts since he was a child. 

“The girl is already dead,” his companion said. He was older, and everything about him was sharp: his dark eyes, regarding Cortez from under a prominent brow; his downturned mouth; his economical movements; his voice. “She is not supposed to be here. She should have passed on.”

Cortez drained his glass and reached for the bottle to refill it. “And she has chosen to remain with her friends. What is the harm in that?” He had not spoken to Annie Sawyer, but her name had been on the lips of every ghost in Bristol—and great many beyond, he had no doubt—since she had confronted her murderer and then turned down her door some months before.

“She does not belong,” Kemp said. “She is a wrinkle in the fabric of reality. A crease in the cloth. She _must_ pass on.”

“Perhaps—” Cortez turned his glass around in his hands. “She will choose on her own, eventually. There are others, who desire to cross over, and need help doing so. Why don’t I focus on them?” He heard, and hated, the plea in his voice, saw himself as Kemp must see him: disheveled, unshaven, his clothes as shabby as his flat, drinking himself into a stupor so that he might sleep without the intrusion of the dead. Pathetic.

Kemp reached across the table to lay a hand on Cortez’s shoulder, and waited for the medium to look him in the eye. “Do you want to be cured of your affliction?” he asked.

Cortez moaned. That was it; Kemp’s trump card. Cortez would do as he said, because he wanted, more than anything, to silence the ghostly voices that clamored for his attention. Wordlessly, he nodded. 

“Then this world must be cleansed. Only then will you find peace. Do you understand?”

Cortez nodded again.

“Good. Then you will make contact, and I will speak with you again next week.” Kemp stood and reached for his coat, folded neatly over the back of the sofa. Cortez drained his second glass while his guest put on the long black overcoat, pulled gloves onto his hands and settled his hat on his head. Before he left, Kemp paused and placed both hands on his slumped shoulders in a gesture of reassurance, and then let himself out.

Once outside, Kemp allowed his mouth to twist into the expression of disgust he had been suppressing. Cortez was pathetic, but he was necessary. Kemp even had genuine feelings of compassion for the man, but they were secondary to his dedication to his purpose. Cortez would find peace, as they all would, when the world was cleansed of evil, and this work would cleanse his soul.

In the meantime, well. War made for strange bedfellows, as Kemp well knew.

“Reluctant soldier?” Herrick asked.

Kemp pulled the car door shut and grunted in reply.

Smiling, the vampire turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the parking space in front of the council house. “You should have brought me in. I can be…persuasive.”

Kemp fixed him with his sharp gaze. “You have your job,” he reminded him.

Herrick’s smile widened. “Indeed. Though, really, you probably could have found a chauffeur a little more easily.” Kemp scowled, and Herrick waved a hand at him. “Oh, I know, I know, kill all the vampires. I just hope you don’t object to my having a little fun while I’m at it.”

“Collateral damage is to be expected,” Kemp said placidly. “Just do not forget that you are a weapon. _My_ weapon.”

Herrick flicked his gaze over at him, his mouth twisting. “Don’t I know it,” he said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This began as a fluffy transitional chapter, and then it morphed into something more introspective, with a side of fluff, as the housemates begin to navigate some complications in their relationships.
> 
> Mrs. Finnegan is a little homage to my first grade teacher, who was very proud of her Irish heritage, and _The Paper Bag Princess_ is an excellent children's book.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has subscribed, commented, and "kudosed" (is that a verb?) I really appreciate knowing people are reading and enjoying my contribution to Housemates!

On Wednesday morning, Nina found George in the hospital laundry room, where he was busy stuffing sheets into the industrial-sized washer.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she accused.

George jumped at the sound of her voice and turned. “What? No, I haven’t!” It was even technically true; he had arranged to have his shifts at the hospital covered on Monday and Tuesday so that he could stay home with Mitchell, though he had deliberately not called Nina after she came over on Monday evening.

Nina leaned in the doorway, her arms folded beneath her breasts, and raised an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t!” George insisted. “I just thought you might want…a little space.” He finished the sentence in a mumble, looked away from her and resumed his task.

“And why would you think I needed ‘space’?”

“Well.” George ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “I’ve just told you that my best friend is a vampire; my other best friend, who, as you already knew, is an alien sorcerer, is dating a ghost; and once a month I turn into a ravening beast who wouldn’t think twice to rip your throat out. Oh, and we are also being pursued by unknown malevolent forces, including, but probably not limited to, the resurrected former chief of police, who was, also, incidentally, a vampire.” He looked at her expectantly.

“Oh, George,” Nina sighed, coming into the room. She pushed the laundry cart aside so she could wrap her arms around his waist. “Is that all?” she asked, looking up at him.

George blinked, spluttered incoherently for a moment, and finally managed to repeat, “‘Is that all?’” in a high voice.

Nina reached up and placed her hands on his shoulders. “George,” she said, “I’ll admit it isn’t ideal, but…I’ve met far scarier monsters than you lot, trust me.” 

Her comment was meant to be reassuring, but it made George feel as though a fist was squeezing his heart. He saw, in his mind’s eye, the burn that wrapped around Nina’s side and covered her belly. She didn’t talk about it, and he didn’t ask, but he yearned, in the deepest part of him, to take away her pain, to hold her and keep her safe, and he knew with certainty that he could never do that. He swallowed hard. “Something could happen,” he whispered. “I could hurt you.” He opened his eyes and looked down into hers, blinking back tears. “I don’t ever want to hurt you, Nina.”

“I know.” She cradled his cheek in one hand. “But George, I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, or, I don’t know, fall down the stairs and crack my head open.”

George winced. “That’s…how Annie died, actually.”

“Sorry.” Somehow, Nina managed to look apologetic and impatient at the same time. “The point is, we take risks just getting up in the morning. If being with you means a few more risks, well…” A glimmer of a smile touched her lips. “I like that better than the alternative.”

George stared at her. Finally he asked, “You do?”

“I really do,” Nina replied, and stretched up on tiptoe to kiss him.

***

Loki went back to work on Wednesday as well, having augmented the protective spells on the hospital and the school the day before. Still, he did so reluctantly: he trusted his enchantments, on the house and their places of employment, to keep his friends safe; and he knew that Mitchell’s recovery now required rest more than anything else, but he worried.

It wasn’t his physical recovery that worried Loki. Mitchell had spent most of the previous day sleeping, in his room until midmorning, and later on the daybed in the lounge; by the evening, after tea, he had been strong enough to navigate the stairs on his own, though the climb had tired him. But Loki had noticed something else, over the last two days, flashes of emotion that made a troubling pattern.

The first was not so much a flash as it had been a glaring spotlight: the way Mitchell had hid his face after he drank from Loki. Loki had been watching him carefully since then, and so he had noticed Mitchell’s fleeting expression of surprise and relief when Annie hugged him, after he came downstairs; and other glimpses of tension, or anxiety, or fear, as the four of them had interacted over the last two days. He hid it; Mitchell was as tightly controlled as Loki had ever been, and Loki wondered if he was only seeing these cracks in his armor because Mitchell was tired and injured, or because Loki had not thought to look for them before.

He suspected a little of both.

It was well, of course, that Mitchell had such iron self-control; it was what allowed him to stay clean, to keep his vampire hunger from overruling the kindness and generosity that was in Mitchell’s deepest nature. But, Loki thought as he loaded his cart with cleaning supplies in the custodians’ room, he should not have to feel ashamed of the thing he struggled with in front of his friends. And he did, of that Loki had no doubt. He recalled the way Mitchell had avoided looking at all of their faces as he explained why he needed to drink from a living person in order for their blood to do him any good, and his self-recrimination when he had told Loki of the DVD, and of George and Annie’s reactions to it.

He had hidden that part of himself, but not, Loki thought now, quite the same way as Loki kept his own darkness hidden away. Loki’s loved ones had seen that part of himself, had accepted it, had forgiven him, as he was learning to forgive himself. It was an ongoing process, and a slow and painful one, but the wounds were out in the open, now, and healing, even if the scars would always be there. 

Mitchell, Loki realized suddenly, held them at a distance. He took care of his friends, he protected them, he often acted as a guide to help them navigate the supernatural underworld in which he had been living for so much longer than the rest of them—but he hid his own vulnerability behind his leadership, his competence, his knowledge and his age. Loki thought of the times Mitchell retreated to his room when he was troubled, to be alone, and wished he had thought more often to go after him, to offer to talk, or to listen.

_Just the thing I was always after, and I did not see when my friend needed me to notice._ He resolved to do better, to pay more attention, and not to let him be alone so much.

Loki had asked Annie to text him updates throughout the day to let him know how Mitchell was doing, and so his phone buzzed periodically as he went about his tasks for the morning.

_Mitchell still asleep. Think he’ll want tea or coffee?_ Annie texted him while he wiped down the tables in the cafeteria, after the students who ate school breakfast had gone to their classrooms. Loki could almost hear her gentle teasing tone through the words, reassuring him she had things well in hand at the house. He did not stop worrying, but he felt better for having the reminder.

_Mitchell still asleep. What do u think of chicken pie for tea?_ she sent, while he mopped away the children’s muddy footprints from the entryway (a task, he thought with a sigh, he would be repeating several times before he went home.) He texted her back, _Chicken pie sounds lovely._

Half an hour later, while he was mopping the second-floor corridor, his phone buzzed again. _Mitchell awake. Wanted coffee. Says to tell u he feels better and to stop worrying._ Loki grinned, imagining Mitchell’s tone as he said it, probably through a mouthful of cereal, and texted back, _Remind Mitchell who he is talking to._

He was cleaning out the refrigerator in the faculty lounge when he got another message, from Mitchell, this time. _Annie insisting we watch P &P. Tell her Im injured and get to pick the movie._

It was followed, in quick succession, by a message from Annie: _Tell Mitchell P &P is best cure for everything._

Loki texted both of them, _Do not make me come over there._

_Mitchell wants to watch Lord of the Rings,_ Annie texted. _Cannot watch that many hours of hobbits._

_Don’t even pretend ur not into Legolas,_ Mitchell sent, then added, _And Aragorn. And Boromir._

Unable to help himself, Loki added, _Do not forget Faramir and Eomer._

Annie replied, _Mr. Darcy 4eva._

Chuckling, his spirits lifted by the banter, Loki decided to settle the matter. _There may come a day when Annie will watch the Lord of the Rings with you, but it is not this day. However, I will be happy to watch it with you at the weekend._

An hour after that, when Loki was settling down for his lunch break after a morning that had been surprisingly productive despite the interruptions, Annie texted, _Mitchell asleep again. Told u P &P is best. Knew it would put him right to sleep. Boy needs his rest._

After lunch, Loki went to Mrs. Finnegan’s kindergarten class on the first floor. Since he had informed Mrs. Kingston and Ms. Hamoudi of his intentions to pursue a teaching credential, they had taken it upon themselves to make room in his schedule for him to assist in the various classrooms throughout the week. This week, he was meant to be reading stories to the smallest children after lunch, though he would have to make it up to them for having missed the first part of the week.

He was barely in the door when he found himself immobilized by a dozen pairs of small arms hugging him around the legs, excitedly crying, “Mr. Loki! Mr. Loki’s here!” in a chorus of piping voices. (“Mr. Odinson” had been next to impossible to instill in the children’s vocabularies, so “Mr. Loki” he had become. Loki did not mind in the least.) 

A boy with black hair that stuck out in all directions tugged on Loki’s hand, asking him with wide eyes, “Where were you yesterday? Were you with the ‘vengers?”

Loki smiled and shook his head, dropping into a squat so that he would be on a level with the children, who waited, rapt, for his answer. “Not this time,” he replied. “My friend was ill and I stayed home to care for him.”

The boy looked disappointed, but a little girl with pigtails told him solemnly, “You should give him ice cream. I always get ice cream when I’m ill. It makes me feel better.”

Loki kept rather admirable hold of his laughter as he replied with equal solemnity, “I shall remember that. Thank you.”

“Class,” Mrs. Finnegan called to them. “Allow Mr. Loki to come into the room, please.” Her face was serious, but her eyes twinkled. She was a short, round woman, with cropped brown hair and ruddy cheeks, and a hint of Mitchell’s lilting accent. She shooed the children to the back of the room, where they each selected a soft toy from a shelf along the wall and then piled onto large circular rug.

“How is your flatmate doing?” Mrs. Finnegan asked him in a low voice, as the two adults followed. 

“He is doing much better today, thank you for asking,” Loki replied politely.

She smiled and patted his arm. “I’m glad. It must have been terribly frightening.”

Loki nodded. “Luckily, it was more frightening than anything else,” he told her, opting for a half-truth. “And I am very sorry to have missed reading to your class on Monday and Tuesday,” he continued, loudly enough for the children to hear. He addressed them as he went on, “I shall have to make it up to you next week.”

Mrs. Finnegan patted his arm again, and retreated to her desk at the front of the room. Loki eschewed the adult-sized chair at the edge of the rug and instead settled himself cross-legged on the rug with the children. “Now,” he said, looking around at the small faces. “What are we reading today?”

The children took it in turns to choose the books for reading aloud; today, it was a small girl named Elizabeth who handed Loki a large illustrated book. She had dark curls and large brown eyes, putting Loki in mind of what Annie might have looked like at that age.

“ _The Paper Bag Princess,_ ” he read aloud. “I do not know this one.”

“It’s about a princess named Elizabeth,” Elizabeth informed him.

“Oh, then it’s a story about you?”

The children giggled. Elizabeth hugged herself and shook her head, a dimple showing in her cheek. “I’m not a princess,” she explained.

“Ah, I see.” Loki examined the cover, which depicted, in stylized line drawings, a young woman wearing a paper bag, facing a dragon whose head was larger than her whole body. “Well, this Elizabeth looks to be a most formidable princess.”

“What’s ‘formable’?” a boy with a mop of blond curls—Peter—asked.

“For-MID-a-buhl.” Loki carefully enunciated each syllable. He gestured, and the children obediently repeated the word, before he explained “It means strong and brave.” Out of the corner of his eye, Loki thought he saw Mrs. Finnegan smile in his direction. He covered up his sudden discomfiture by beginning the story.

Loki had been forbidden the use of magic in the school by Mrs. Kingston, and though he frequently broke that particular rule, he had little temptation to do so when he read stories to the children. He would have had great fun conjuring the dragon, especially when he got to the part where the princess Elizabeth tricked the dragon into tiring himself out by showing off his powers, but he took it as a special challenge to use only his face and voice to bring the story to life; and judging by the children’s rapt expressions, he was quite successful.

“Elizabeth is a formidable princess indeed,” he remarked when he had finished the story. “And quite right not to marry Ronald, in the end. I do not think he was worthy of her.”

From the front of the room, Mrs. Finnegan chuckled. Loki smiled at her as he got to his feet. “What do you say, class?” the teacher prompted.

“Thank you, Mr. Loki,” the children chorused.

“You are most welcome,” Loki told them. He made a formal bow. “I shall see you all tomorrow.”

***

Loki arrived home that evening to the welcoming aroma of chicken pie in the oven, in thoroughly good spirits, though he had not forgotten his earlier worries. Mitchell, he knew from Annie, had spent most of the afternoon asleep on the sofa. He was sitting at the kitchen table when Loki came home, making fruit salad for dessert.

“I have it on good authority from one of Mrs. Finnegan’s students that you should eat plenty of ice cream in order to feel better,” Loki told Mitchell, seating himself at the table beside him.

Mitchell raised an eyebrow at him. “Isn’t Mrs. Finnegan’s class the kindergarten?” he asked.

“Indeed.” Loki reached over him and took a strawberry from the carton at Mitchell’s elbow. It was early yet, for strawberries, but he enjoyed the tartness on his tongue. “How are you feeling?”

Mitchell picked up the cutting board and tilted a pile of sliced berries into the bowl in front of him. “Tired,” he said. “Still sore.” His hand drifted toward his chest. “But a lot better today.”

“Good.” Loki replied, resolving to continue to keep a close eye on his friend. “Annie, do you need help with anything?”

George came in soon after, juggling a tin of biscuits and a large bouquet of flowers with a shiny silver helium balloon floating above it that read, “Get well soon!” in bright blue lettering. “That’s from the nurses,” he told Mitchell, setting down the tin of biscuits on the table, “And the porters,” indicating the flowers.

“Oh, that’s sweet!” Annie said. She took the flowers from George and set them on top of the fridge.

“That is really nice of everyone,” Mitchell agreed. “Will you tell them thank you from me tomorrow?”

“Of course,” George replied. He set a stack of plates and a handful of cutlery on the table and took the seat across from Mitchell. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks,” Mitchell said. He looked speculatively at George, who was wearing a faintly silly smile. “You’re in a good mood.”

The dopey, unconscious grin widened. “I am in a good mood,” George agreed, as Annie joined them and set the chicken pie on the table. George reached for the plates and began dishing out servings of chicken pie for himself, Loki, and Mitchell. “I talked to Nina today.” He told them about their conversation.

When he finished, Mitchell said, “See? I told you she’d be fine.” And there it was, just a flash of—something. Fear. Loki didn’t think anyone else noticed before it vanished, and Mitchell was saying, with sincerity, “That’s great, mate. I’m really happy for you.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the chicken pie (Annie’s mum’s recipe, of course) and the feeling of being together, and whole, in what they all knew was very likely the calm before the storm.

At length, Loki ventured to voice some of the thoughts that had occupied him during the afternoon, after he read _The Paper Bag Princess_ to Mrs. Finnegan’s kindergarten. “I have been thinking,” he began.

Mitchell paused in the act of filling his plate with a second helping of chicken pie. “About?” he prompted.

“That whatever we are facing, we are not very well prepared.”

Mitchell snorted in agreement, and George muttered, “I’ll say.”

Loki continued, “Tomorrow I have a split day”—meaning he would go to work early to open the school, and return in the afternoon to close it—“so I thought I would consult with Catherine Bennett during the day. Perhaps she will have some ideas about what manner of threat is behind Herrick’s return.” He spread his hands. “In any case, however, I think it is long past time I give Annie and George some lessons at fighting.”

He was met with silence. He bore it as best he could, pushing his food around on his plate while his housemates absorbed his suggestion. After a few moments Mitchell said, nodding, “I think that’s a very good idea.”

Loki looked up, and to his relief, he saw that George and Annie were nodding, too. “Yeah,” Annie agreed. “I mean, Mitchell can take care of himself, but George and me, we’re kind of the tag alongs who need protecting. Sorry, George,” she added.

“It’s the truth.” He shrugged. “For me most of all. You can vanish if you need to, and if there’s a cord of firewood handy, you can always drop it on an attacker’s head.” 

Mitchell snorted at that. Annie swatted at George. “It was an _accident_ ,” she muttered. “I’m never going to hear the end of that, am I?”

“Probably not,” George said cheerfully. Turning to Loki, he went on, “Though I don’t expect I’ll be any good at it. There’s a reason I never played sports growing up.”

“You’ll be fine,” Mitchell assured him. “It would be good for me, too. I’m strong, and fast, when I’m not…” he waved his hand. “But I’m out of practice. I think if I had to fight another vampire, really fight him, I’d be in some trouble.” He didn’t say “Herrick,” but they were all thinking it.

“Good.” Loki said. “Perhaps we will begin tomorrow evening, then, and Mitchell, you will join us when you are more fully recovered.”

Thus agreed, their talk turned to Loki’s plans for meeting Catherine the next day. George and Loki did the washing up, and the four of them retired to the lounge with the tin of biscuits, and mugs of tea, before they all retired for the night. Mitchell was the first to go, pleading exhaustion not long before they had settled down. Pensively, Loki watched him go, still using the wall for support as he climbed the stairs. Not long after, he declared he was also tired, and went up to the box room.

Annie followed some time later; Loki was already in bed, with Philip and Elizabeth curled up on his chest. He had a book beside him, but instead lay staring at the ceiling, frowning in thought.

“What’s up?” Annie asked.

Loki glanced at her. “I am worried about Mitchell,” he admitted. He pulled the cover back, and Annie lay down beside him, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “We all are. He isn’t getting better as fast as I’d thought.”

Loki nodded. “I think he is recovering more slowly than he expected, but that is not it.” He paused, trying to find a way to express his concerns without betraying Mitchell’s confidence. “After—after he drank from me, he would not let me see his face.” He paused a moment, and then went on, “He told me about Bernie.”

“Oh.” Annie shifted and sighed. “That was—it was so terrible.”

“He blames himself,” Loki said.

Annie nodded. “I know.”

A sudden thought occurred to Loki, one he had not considered, and was not sure he liked. “Do—do you?”

“No! Of course not!” She pulled away from him and propped herself up on an elbow. A little shamefaced, mumbled, “Maybe a little.” She glanced at him, looking as though she hated herself for admitting it, but went on, “He kept the DVD. I don’t understand. Why would he keep it?”

Loki reached for her, and she let him pull her close again. He rested his chin on top of her head. “I do, a little,” he said. “That is a part of him, whether he—or we—like it or not. Keeping it was a way to acknowledge it. I keep my things from Asgard for much the same reason.”

Annie thought about that for a few moments. She twirled a lock of his hair around her fingers. It had grown long in the time he had been on Midgard, and it now fell well past his shoulders, curling softly at the ends. “That makes sense,” she said at last. “I was just so horrified by it.”

“Did you ever talk to him about it?” Loki asked.

Annie shifted uncomfortably. “Which? Bernie, or the DVD?”

Loki had meant Bernie, but he answered, “Either. Both.”

She shook her head against his chest. “We should have, shouldn’t we?” she asked softly. “I guess…everything was still so new, then. I couldn’t even step outside the house, and this world was so strange and frightening, and George—I think he was still too raw to pay much attention to other people.” She shook her head again. “We were both relying on him to—to take care of us, to help us navigate the world of being a supernatural, and…I think we were just both so angry that he’d screwed up so badly. I don’t think…

“After the accident, he barely came out of his room for days, except to go to work. And we just let him stay in there, all alone.” She propped herself up again and looked down at him, her face miserable. “We weren’t very good friends to him, were we?” she asked.

Loki reached up and caressed her curls, his wish to reassure her warring with what they both knew to be the truth. “Maybe not,” he finally admitted. “I am worried that…he hid his face from me for the same reason he hid the DVD. He fears to show us some parts of himself; he fears our rejection were we to truly see his vampire nature.”

“He would have reason to think so,” Annie said, grimacing.

“Annie,” Loki said gently. He waited for her to meet his eyes. “Certainly we have all shown Mitchell that we love him, and would not cast him out, despite how you and George reacted to the DVD. It is only that, knowing a thing and believing it are two different things, and…shame and fear are not rational emotions, as you and I both know.”

Annie lay back down. “Yeah,” she agreed. “We’ll just have to—to tell him, when we can. Remind him that we’re here for him.”

Loki pulled her close again. “And make sure our actions match our words,” he said.

It was a long time before either of them slept.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy snowpocalypse! If you’re affected by the winter storm, I hope you’re staying warm and safe, and here is an update to entertain you (I hope!) This one got a bit long, but I didn’t really see a good place to break it up, so, here it is.
> 
> Thor makes an appearance in this chapter, and I want to put a reminder here that I am working off Coneycat’s stories, including her portrayal of Thor, when I write his and Loki’s relationship. So, this is a Thor who is a great deal smarter, and more self-aware and perceptive, than the Thor of the films (and probably of the comics, too, though I’m not familiar with them), and he and Loki have been on good—better than good—terms for a while at this point. (Also, this means brother feels.)
> 
> Future updates will be coming a little more slowly, as my work obligations pick up again after the holidays. I’ll be shooting for 1-2 weeks between updates, but that will likely fluctuate.
> 
> Many thanks, as usual, to all who have been reading/commenting/kudosing. I always appreciate (and am often inspired by!) readers’ thoughts about how this is playing out, so if you’re so inclined, I’d love to hear yours, dear reader.

When he allowed the hunger inside him to wake, it heightened all of Mitchell’s senses.

He could feel Loki sitting in the chair beside his bed, a shimmer of heat making a halo around him that only Mitchell could see. He could hear the beating of his heart, the whisper of his breath, the rush of blood in his veins. 

Loki extended his arm, palm up. The skin was white, nearly transparent to Mitchell’s eyes, the web of blue veins visible beneath it.

Mitchell drank.

His teeth pierced flesh and blood filled his mouth, hot and salty sweet on his tongue. Loki’s blood was different than a human’s: thicker, richer. Mitchell drank greedily, feeling strength pour into him with every swallow. His heart pounded, painfully at first, until the damage done by the stake repaired itself, and then his feverish heartbeat sent him soaring.

Mitchell drank, and drank.

Warmth spread through him. His skin flushed. Loki tried to pull his arm away, but Mitchell held him fast, his grasp tightening until he felt the bones of his wrist grind against each other.

“Mitchell.” Loki’s voice sounded far away, barely reaching him through the pounding in his ears and the exhilaration that thrilled in him, buzzing in his fingertips.

“Mitchell, it’s enough,” Loki said, his firm tone belied by an undercurrent of pain and fear. “Stop.” He tried to pull away again.

A part of him heard; heard, and wanted to listen, wanted to stop. But it was a tiny part, feeble, overcome by the hunger, the lust for blood, the desire to _consume._ Savagely, he squeezed Loki’s wrist until bones snapped under the pressure of his fingers. Loki jerked and cried out in his grasp.

“ _Mitchell,_ ” Loki’s voice was thin with desperation, and he struggled in earnest, now. “ _Stop._ Please, it’s enough.”

Mitchell bit deeper, opening another vein. Blood spurted into his mouth, ran warm down his chin. He held Loki fast, and he wanted to stop, but he could not. He could not. Loki’s struggles weakened, slowly, his protests fading, until finally he was silent, and still. 

Mitchell kept drinking.

Finally, he raised his head, gasping. Mitchell did not remember when he had last felt so strong, so clear, so _alive_ —

In his chair beside the bed, Loki sagged to one side, half-lying on the mattress, his upper body supported against the wall. His head lolled forward, dark hair hiding his face. Slowly, Mitchell became conscious of his own hands, still holding fast to Loki’s arm. Stared at it, the torn flesh still bleeding sluggishly, the crushed bones of his wrist. Realized what he had done.

Mitchell let it go as if burned.

Loki’s arm fell limply to the blanket beside him. He slumped over sideways, sliding out of the chair. Panicked, Mitchell caught him before he fell to the floor and pulled him into his lap.

“Loki?” he asked, his voice small and trembling. 

No response.

“Oh, God,” Mitchell said, feeling for a pulse. _Ohgodohgodohgod—_ Nothing. He could feel the heat dissipating from his body. No heartbeat, no whisper of breath at his lips. “No.” His voice broke. “Loki.” He shook him, his vision blurring. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Loki. Wake up. Please, wake up.” Nothing. He lay heavily against him, his eyes closed, his face slack.

Suddenly angry, Mitchell shook him harder. “Why didn’t you stop me?” he cried. “Why did you let me do it? _Why didn’t you stop me?_ ” 

Mitchell sank his teeth into his own wrist and held it to Loki’s mouth. It wasn’t too late. _Please don’t let it be too late._ “Drink,” commanded. He shook his friend’s lifeless body again. “Drink!” Pressed the open wound against his friend’s mouth. Could he even turn him? Would Loki thank him if he succeeded? 

It didn’t matter.

The blood passed Loki’s lips, stained his teeth red, but he did not drink. Mitchell gave up and pulled him close, held him against his chest and rocked him back and forth, his eyes closed against the hot tears that ran down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He heard his door open, and a new wave of anguish seized him. He hunched over further, as if he could hide what he had done, and clutched Loki’s body to him.

“Mitchell?” Annie’s voice. Annie’s hand on his shoulder, cold even to him. “Mitchell.”

He shrank from her, burying his face in Loki’s hair. “I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Oh, God, Annie, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“ _Mitchell._ ” Annie’s voice was more urgent now, but not angry. Worried. She shook his shoulder. “You didn’t mean to what?”

“ _Kill him!_ I didn’t mean to. I couldn’t stop. I knew I couldn’t—” He broke off, sobbing.

“Shhhhh.” Annie shook his shoulder again. “Wake up, Mitchell. You’re dreaming.”

“I’m not—” He could still taste blood in his mouth, on his lips.

“It’s a dream, Mitchell. You haven’t killed anyone.” He heard himself sob. Annie kept shaking him. He curled himself tighter, clutching—not a body. Something soft. A pillow. “Wake up, Mitchell,” Annie repeated. “It’s just a dream.”

Just a dream. He opened his eyes. Daylight filtered in through his drawn curtains. He was trembling all over, his breathing harsh and rapid.

“Annie?” he whispered.

“I’m right here,” she soothed. She stroked his forehead. “It’s all right. You’re all right.” 

Mitchell closed his eyes again, trying to tamp down the sobs that wanted to well up in him again. “I dreamed I—” The words dissolved into weeping.

“Just a dream,” Annie said. “You haven’t done anything. Everything’s fine. It was just a dream.” She kept up a stream of soothing nonsense, running her fingers through his hair, until he calmed.

“Loki,” he hiccuped when he could form words again. He pushed himself upright, trying to orient himself. “Where’s Loki? Is he—?” He scrubbed his hands back through his hair and then pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

“He’s fine,” Annie assured him. “He’s at work.”

Mitchell let out a shaky breath. “I dreamed I—killed him.” He shuddered, gulped down a fresh sob.

“Shhh. You didn’t.” Annie took his hands, and then _tsk_ ed worriedly as she turned them over in hers. “You’re bleeding,” she said.

Mitchell stared at the ragged wound in his wrist, only now noticing that it hurt. He licked his lips. The blood he tasted was his own. “I must have—in my sleep,” he stammered.

“I’ll go get something for it,” Annie said, standing.

“No!” He caught her hand and scrambled out of bed. “I’ll—I’ll come with you,” he said, not quite able to articulate his terror that, if she left, the nightmare would return. She seemed to understand—as Annie so often did—and put a comforting arm around his waist as they went downstairs.

“You know why I didn’t sleep for all that time?” Annie asked him. She sat him at the kitchen table and went to the cupboard for the first aid supplies. 

Mitchell shook his head.

“I was terrified I would dream,” she said, coming back to the table with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of sterile gauze bandages. She grimaced. “I didn’t want to know what kind of dreams dead people have.” 

She took his hand in hers and dabbed at the wound with the antiseptic. It didn’t really matter—it wasn’t like vampires were susceptible to infection—but the ritual of cleaning and dressing the wound was comforting.

“I don’t dream, usually,” Mitchell admitted, his eyes on her hands. “Which is surprising. You’d think a person with my…history…would have a lot more dreams like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

He considered for a moment, then said, “No.” He held a fresh square of gauze while she taped it in place.

“It might make you feel better.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “Maybe later. But right now—” He shook his head, quelling a sudden rush of images and sensations, tamping it down, reminding himself that he was awake. “I can’t.”

Annie patted his hand. “It’s all right,” she said, though her face betrayed her worry. She collected the first aid supplies and returned them to their cupboard. “How about some tea, then? And some breakfast?”

Mitchell let out a relieved breath, glad she was not pushing the matter, and hearing in the offer of tea what Annie meant him to hear: an offering of love and comfort. “Tea would be lovely,” he said. “Thank you.”

***

Mitchell was eating cereal in the kitchen, still in his sweatpants, when Loki came home from his morning shift at work. They had been planning to meet at the house before going to see Catherine that morning—the three of them, since George had an early shift at the hospital. 

Mitchell felt another knot of tension in him ease when he saw Loki come through the door, another link back to reality—but at least the first half of the dream had been memory, and because of that, a different knot tightened, with a rush of anxiety and shame. He bent his head over his cereal bowl as he listened to Annie greet him in the entryway, and then usher him back outside to talk on the front stoop.

Loki came in the kitchen a few minutes later. “Annie says you had a nightmare,” he said, joining Mitchell at the table.

Mitchell nodded and took a bite of his cereal. It tasted like sawdust, and he chewed and swallowed with effort, gulped down his tea to try to wash away the gluey residue in his mouth.

When he said nothing more, Loki said, gently, “She said you dreamed you killed me.”

Mitchell swallowed down a sob, instead made a choked noise in his throat. He dropped his spoon into the bowl with a clatter, pushed it away from him, and hid his face in his hands.

“I am fine, Mitchell,” Loki told him. His warm hand closed over Mitchell’s arm where it rested on the table.

“I know.” His voice was muffled, thick. He didn’t look up.

“Will you tell me about it?”

Not, _do you want to talk about it?_ A request, with the knowledge that Mitchell would not want to talk about it—but probably should.

He nodded. The motion felt jerky, and his chest constricted. “I dreamed I killed you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper as he repeated what Annie had told him. Loki made no reply, and after a moment Mitchell went on, speaking haltingly to the table. “It was the night you—you helped me, but I lost control, and—you fought me, but I just kept—kept drinking.” He drew a deep breath. “And then you were dead, and I tried—I tried to change you, but I couldn’t. I knew you wouldn’t want me to, but I didn’t care, I just wanted save you,” he finished in a rush and scrubbed at his eyes.

Loki let out a soft “ah” of understanding. “But that is not what happened,” he said, his voice still low and gentle. “You did not lose control. You stopped before you took too much from me, and even if you had not been able to, I was ready to use magic to stop you. You would not have killed me.”

“It felt so real.” Mitchell’s voice trembled. “I held your body—” He gestured helplessly. “I—hurt you. You struggled, and”—his voice broke as he remembered the feeling of bones cracking in his grip—“I broke your wrist. You kept struggling, and then you—you stopped.”

Loki reached over and caught his hand, squeezed it. “It was not real,” he said.

Mitchell swallowed hard and nodded. “I know.” he said after a moment, when he was sure his voice was steady. He managed a weak smile. “I’m all right.”

“Good,” Loki replied, but he continued to study Mitchell’s face, his gray-green eyes troubled. At length he said, “Mitchell, you did not do anything wrong, when you drank from me.”

Mitchell looked away. Of course, Loki would see to the heart of the matter; he was singularly good at reading people, even if he could be singularly stupid about how he interpreted that information, and what he did with it. “Didn’t I?” he asked, his voice rough. “I’m supposed to be on the wagon, and I…”

“I would say these qualify as extenuating circumstances,” Loki said drily. “Besides, do humans not donate blood for the sick and injured? What I did for you was no different.”

Of course, Loki would see it that way. Mitchell shook his head and shrugged uncomfortably. “I still feel…” he trailed off, not sure what it was that he felt. Guilty. Ashamed. Treacherous, as though he had violated a trust. He felt Loki’s eyes on him and bowed his head, letting his hair fall forward to hide his face.

“Mitchell,” Loki said, and waited for Mitchell to look up at him. Loki met his gaze steadily. “It changes nothing between us. Truly,” he said, when Mitchell’s expression remained skeptical. “It takes great strength and courage to fight as you do. Never think I do not know that.”

Mitchell blinked a few times, remembering suddenly what Loki had said to him, about Mitchell showing him that he had choices—as Loki had helped Mitchell see the same thing about himself. Of his three housemates, Mitchell reflected, Loki perhaps understood him the best: He knew, in a way that Annie and even George could not, what it was to have darkness inside himself, a shadow self that painted visions of chaos and destruction with desire. Loki knew that madness, he had fought it; and he knew, as Mitchell did, that it could be overcome. He could believe Loki’s assurances because they came from experience. Mitchell relaxed a little and took a deep breath. “Thanks,” he mumbled.

Loki relaxed as well. “Why don’t you go get dressed?” he suggested. “And then we will go see Catherine. I suspect a walk will do you good.” A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. “And one of Catherine’s cinnamon buns will probably not go amiss, either.”

The comment startled a chuckle out of him, and Mitchell realized that he was, in fact, quite hungry. He glanced down at his cereal, now unappetizingly soggy. “You know,” he said, one side of his mouth tugging into a lopsided smile, “I think a cinnamon bun sounds really good right about now.”

***

Loki was right; the walk did do him good. By the time they reached Catherine’s tea room, the fresh air, combined with a shower and fresh clothes, left Mitchell feeling calm and clear-headed again. He was still shaken, but memories of the dream no longer threatened to overwhelm him, and they now felt distinctly dreamlike, no longer quite so interchangeable with reality.

Catherine greeted them warmly when they approached her table at the back of the tea room, Loki and Mitchell both juggling cups of tea and cinnamon buns. Taking in their faces, she gestured to the other chairs and said, “I take it this is not a social call?”

“I’m afraid not,” Loki said, as they all seated themselves. Speaking in a low voice, as the tea room was not empty at that time of day, he told her about Herrick’s return, and the little he had been able to conclude from those events and his research in Asgard’s library. 

When he finished, Catherine nodded slowly. “I’ve felt…stirrings, recently,” she said. She grimaced and spread her hands, as if she had touched something unpleasant. “I didn’t know what to make of them. If this vampire has returned…” She grimaced. “The kind of magic that could accomplish such a thing is dark, and extremely powerful: raising the dead, summoning demons. There are a few grimoires in existence that would have spells for such things, but they are quite difficult to come by. Most of them have been destroyed.” There was no mistaking, by her tone, who had done the destroying.

Loki made an affronted noise in his throat. Annie moved slightly, and Mitchell saw her place a hand on his leg under the table. Loki managed to quell any remarks he was going to make, but his brows still drew down. He hated to hear of books being destroyed, however dangerous. 

Catherine looked at him sharply. “It has been the work of my order for centuries to keep such knowledge from falling into the wrong hands,” she said. “Believe me, the preservation of such knowledge is not be worth the destruction it can wreak in the hands of one determined and powerful enough.”

Loki flinched. “Of course,” he murmured, looking down at his hands.

“So,” Mitchell said, deflecting her attention from Loki and bringing the conversation back to their immediate problem, “Are we looking for someone who may still be able to get his hands on one of these grimoires?”

“Or hers.” Catherine relaxed a little. “That’s one possibility. Such knowledge is not confined to books, however. There are dark sorcerers who have passed their knowledge from teacher to student over the centuries.” She sighed. “But it’s possible that it’s not the sorcerer we need to worry about, or not only the sorcerer. Something else could be working through him.”

“Some _thing_ else?” Mitchell repeated.

“There are more realms than your Nine,” she said, glancing at Loki. “Sometimes beings can…reach across, and influence humans. The weak, the power-hungry. They can use them to their own ends.”

“Do we have any idea why a…being…from another realm would want to do something like that?” Annie asked.

Catherine shrugged. “It could be anything, really,” she replied. “Desire for power, for some artifact, access to another realm it can’t reach except through Earth…Or, just the sowing of chaos. It’s hard to say without knowing more about what we’re dealing with.”

They all fell silent, contemplating this possibility.

At length, Mitchell sat back in his chair and said, “Whatever this is, it sounds like we’ve got something a little bigger than Herrick’s desire for revenge on our hands, then.” He didn’t know if he was more relieved or terrified to know that he wasn’t the only target of the threat they were facing.

“I think that is the one thing we can say for certain,” Catherine replied. “Whatever this is, we are all in great danger.” She turned to Annie, then, leaning forward on the table and fixing her with an intent gaze. “You especially, I think, Annie.”

Annie blinked, taken aback. “Me?” she asked. “What have I got to do with anything?”

Catherine smiled humorlessly. “Your name has become something of a talisman among the ghosts in this part of the world, since you turned down your door.” 

“Consequences,” Loki murmured. He looked at Mitchell. “You said there would be consequences.”

Annie swallowed hard. She gripped Loki’s hand. “You think this has something to do with me?” she asked in a small voice.

“I doubt very much that you are the sole target, but…yes, I think this has something to do with you,” Catherine said, her face sympathetic.

Annie looked frightened, and then her jaw set and she narrowed her eyes, and looked determined. “Well,” she said, “we’ll just have to face it when it comes.” She glanced at Loki, and then Mitchell. “Together.”

Mitchell gave her his best reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine,” he said.

“I am sorry I can’t be more of more help,” Catherine said, looking at each of them in turn. “I will speak with Agnes and we will see what else we can find out.”

“Thank you,” Loki said, as they all stood to take their leave. “Be careful,” he added.

“And you,” Catherine replied.

***

“Loki,” Mitchell said, once they were outside, “Do your think you had better talk to your brother? I’m not sure how I feel about bringing the Avengers into this, but…” He gestured. “This is bigger than us.”

“Much bigger,” Loki agreed grimly. “Still, I do not know that the Avengers can be of very much help. I am, after all, the one they call when they are out of their depth with regards to sorcery.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, before he continued, “And I think this situation calls for subtlety. The Avengers are many things, but—”

“But ‘subtle’ isn’t one of them,” Mitchell finished, and he couldn’t keep the relief out of his voice. It was not that he thought they didn’t need the help, but he still wasn’t sure how the Avengers felt about him. They had always been perfectly friendly, had certainly not objected to Mitchell helping them on various missions—and Mitchell liked them very much, especially Clint and Natasha—but he couldn’t quite trust that, if they looked at him and really _saw_ him, they wouldn’t see a monster.

Besides, whatever Herrick’s return presaged, it felt…personal, to Mitchell. There was unfinished business between himself and Herrick, and he felt responsible.

“I would like to talk to my brother, however,” Loki continued. “ _He_ may be of some help, and…” he hesitated, looked uncomfortable. “I would like to talk to him about what has happened.”

“Of course,” Mitchell said, eyeing Loki sidelong. “I wouldn’t ask you to keep things from him, Loki.”

“I know.” Loki shrugged, looking at the pavement as he walked. “But I do not wish to break your confidence, either.”

“You wouldn’t be,” Mitchell assured him. He knew Loki would tell his brother everything that had happened—including the explanation behind Mitchell’s recovery—but if there was one person Mitchell did not worry would turn on him, it was Thor. His loyalty to his brother was unshakeable, and Loki had made it clear where his loyalties lay—however much Mitchell was unsure that he deserved it.

“Besides,” Loki added, “he will be concerned about you, and want to know that you are all right.”

And that, Mitchell could acknowledge, was also true.

Loki took out his mobile and began to type a text message as they walked the last short block to the house. Mitchell wryly wondered where he had picked up that skill—surely even the olders students at his school were still too young? “Thor was away with Father when I was in Asgard,” Loki said as he typed. “I do not know if he has returned to Midgard, but Jane Foster will answer if he is not here.”

To all of their surprise, and to Loki’s relief, his mobile chimed with a text message soon after they arrived home, and it was from Thor.

_Masy we sjytpe npw, bvrothdr?_

Loki smiled at the garbled message (the result of Thor’s large fingers typing on a tiny keyboard). He still had two hours before he had to return to work, so he texted a reply in the affirmative, and went to get the laptop from its shelf in the lounge.

Annie and Mitchell were settling in for the afternoon with a film—Loki smiled when he saw that Annie had relented, and was putting _The Fellowship of the Ring_ in the DVD player—and Loki hesitated a moment, holding the computer under his arm.

“Will you mind if I take this upstairs?” he asked. He wanted his friends to be able to speak with Thor, but he also wanted—needed—to speak with his brother in private about all that had happened this week.

“Of course not,” Annie said, getting up to join Mitchell on the couch.

“It’s not like he can see us on camera, anyway,” Mitchell pointed out. He lay curled on his side with a blanket over him, his head resting on the armrest. Philip and Elizabeth hopped onto the sofa with him and began pawing at the blanket, investigating whether Mitchell would provide a hospitable bed for the afternoon.

“Tell him hello from us,” Annie said.

“And tell him—” Mitchell began, and then cut off as Elizabeth climbed up to his shoulders, settled there, and began to groom his hair. “Oi!” He twitched, trying to dislodge her, but Elizabeth only clung tightly with her paws and applied herself to her task with greater determination. Annie and Loki both began to giggle.

“She’s never done that to me,” Loki said, bemused.

“She must like your shampoo,” Annie giggled, finally reaching over to remove the kitten from Mitchell’s head. Elizabeth gave an affronted meow, but she consented to let Annie cuddle her.

Mitchell looked at Elizabeth with consternation before he said, with a glint in his eye, “Tell Thor not to worry too much. I know it’s constitutionally impossible for both of you, but tell him anyway.”

Loki rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, glad to see Mitchell recovered enough after the events of the morning to tease him. “I don’t know what you are talking about,” Loki said. “I never worry.”

***

“Brother!” Thor boomed when his image resolved on the laptop’s screen, his voice sounding faintly tinny in the computer’s small speakers. “I was sorry to have missed you in Asgard this week. Mother said you only made a short visit.” He gazed intently at his brother, worry in his bright blue eyes. “She said Mitchell was badly wounded.”

“Yes,” Loki replied. He settled himself cross-legged on his bed and adjusted the laptop’s screen so the his face was framed in the small rectangle that showed him what image Thor saw on his end. “He is recovering. I think he will be quite well in another few days.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Thor said. “What happened?”

Loki ran his hands through his hair, feeling suddenly tired. “It is a long story,” he said, and launched into it for the second time that day, in greater detail than he had given Catherine. Thor asked the occasional question, but mostly he listened; the worry on his face grew as Loki filled him in on what little they knew, and what little more they guessed.

“Are you sure you are all right, brother?” Thor asked, when he had finished. “Perhaps I should come to Bristol.”

Loki smiled. “You know you are welcome any time,” he said sincerely. “But right now I don’t know that there is very much to do, except for us to remain watchful.” He disliked being on the defensive in such a way, but in the absence of any more information, he really did not know what else they could do.

Thor nodded thoughtfully. “All right,” he said. “Be careful, brother. And please tell me if there is anything I can do.”

“I will,” Loki promised.

“How are you, Loki?” Thor asked him, his concern shifting to focus more sharply on his brother. “Are _you_ all right?”

Loki sighed and passed a hand over his face, sitting back against his pillows. “I am tired,” he admitted. “And worried. But I am well. I am mostly worried about Mitchell.”

“But you said he was recovering?”

“Yes, but he was…very upset that his recovery could only be effected by drinking my blood. He works very hard to control his—his thirst. He seems to see drinking from me as falling off the wagon, even though the circumstances were”—he shrugged—“extreme.”

“I see,” Thor said, gently. “It is not easy, to know your friend is in pain.”

“No,” Loki agreed, though he felt better, for having talked to his brother about it. He told him so.

Thor gave him an affectionate smile. “I am glad you wish to speak of these things to me,” he said. “It was not always so.” Loki opened his mouth to speak, but Thor held up a hand, forestalling him. “I only mean to say that I am glad it is so now.”

“I am glad, too,” Loki murmured, and looked away, blinking against the sudden stinging in his eyes.

“Take care of yourself, brother,” Thor said. “You cannot take care of your friends if you worry yourself to death.”

Loki chuckled around the lump in his throat, and had to swallow the sob that threatened to come with it. “That reminds me,” he said, his voice unsteady, “Mitchell said to tell you not to worry too much.” He chuckled again. “Though he thinks it’s ‘constitutionally impossible’ for both of us not to worry.”

Thor chuckled, as well. “Then tell him I intend to worry for both of us,” he said, “so that you do not have to.” He sobered. “And tell him I am very glad he is recovering from his injury, and…” he hesitated. “If it—if you think you should, tell him that I bear him no ill will for having drunk of your blood when he was wounded.”

“I will,” Loki said, moved by Thor’s desire to reassure Mitchell. He noticed the time, then, and said regretfully, scrubbing at his eyes, “I must go, Thor. I need to return to work for the afternoon.”

“Of course.” Thor fixed him with a sharp gaze. “I mean what I said, brother. Take care of yourself.”

“I will,” Loki promised. “And you.”

They signed off, and Loki let his head fall back against his pillows for a few moments while he gathered himself. He felt better for having discussed things with Thor, but the conversation, combined with their visit to Catherine, and his talk with Mitchell beforehand—left him feeling emotionally drained. He wished he could take a nap, or join Annie and Mitchell for the remainder of _The Fellowship of the Ring,_ but he would have to opt instead for a sandwich and a cup of strong tea to fortify him for the afternoon.

He was in the kitchen, assembling a ham sandwich while he waited for the kettle to boil, when Loki’s mobile chimed with another message. It was from Catherine.

 _Agnes and I have an idea,_ he read. _May we come over this evening?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of belated research reminded me that "kindergarten" isn't really a commonly used term in the UK, so a small retroactive change there. Mrs. Finnegan now teaches the nursery class.
> 
> I should have said, when I posted the last chapter, that Catherine and Agnes are both creations of Coneycat's, and first appear in her story "And Your Little Cat, Too." (Which, if you haven't read, you are seriously missing out, because it's hilarious.)
> 
> Lastly, on another note entirely, **trigger warning** for a brief discussion of suicide in this chapter.

The afternoon, not unpredictably, dragged by. Loki was distracted and impatient as he went about his tasks at the school, and it was only the fact that he was already tired, and would need all his reserves for whatever Agnes and Catherine had planned that evening, that prevented him from throwing magic at everything and calling it done for the day. So instead he swept and mopped and scrubbed and tidied, checking his watch at what felt like agonizingly long intervals only to find that the hands had barely moved. He visited Mrs. Finnegan’s nursery class, and though the half hour passed quickly, he couldn’t remember the story he had read to them. Later, when he met with Carol before she left to discuss what needed to be done that afternoon and what could be put off until the morning, he had to make her repeat herself when he realized that he had not actually been listening.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, chagrinned. “I am very distracted this afternoon. I think I am more tired than I realized.”

Carol smiled and patted his arm in a motherly fashion. “Of course you are, pet. You’ve had a difficult week,” she said kindly. “Don’t worry about it.”

He _had_ had a difficult week, but Loki still felt badly for letting it interfere with his ability to hold even the simplest conversation, especially since he could not be entirely truthful with Carol about the nature of his preoccupation. He managed to focus long enough to take down the list of tasks he should prioritize for the afternoon, and did his best to apply himself to them in the quiet of the after-school hours; until finally, _finally_ , it was time to go home. He left the building though a back door, ensured it was locked behind him, and, conceding at last to his impatience, climbed into the branches of Yggdrasil under cover of a glamour to make the short trip back to the house.

Loki had told Catherine to come over at half past five, giving him just enough time after he got home for a hasty meal of leftover chicken pie and other odds and ends from the fridge. Annie and Mitchell had filled George in on their conversation with Catherine earlier in the day, relieving Loki of the need to do so—though it might have been a welcome distraction while they waited. He finished eating quickly and then, unable to sit still, paced between the lounge and the front entryway. 

“Will you sit down?” Mitchell finally said from his seat on the red chair.

Loki looked at his watch. “They’re late,” he said worriedly, pacing back toward the front door.

“It’s five thirty-two,” Mitchell pointed out. “ _Relax._ They’ll be here.”

Loki glanced at his housemates, realized his anxiety was wearing on them. “Sorry,” he said, passing a hand over his face. “I just hate all this waiting, and not knowing. If Agnes and Catherine can help us find out more, then perhaps we can _do_ something.” It would be a relief, to be able to take some kind of action.

“I know, mate,” Mitchell said. “I’d tell you to have a beer if I didn’t know it wouldn’t do anything to you.”

“It’s a good thing,” Loki said absently, peering out the front window. “I shouldn’t do magic when I’m drunk. It never goes very well. Ah, here they are,” he added, his shoulders relaxing as he stepped back to open the door.

Annie, George, and Mitchell exchanged amused glances behind his back, and Mitchell said, with laughter in his voice, “You have _got_ to tell us that story, Loki.”

“Hm? What story?” Loki asked, and it was hard to tell if he was genuinely so distracted he didn’t know what he had just said, or if it was feigned—as was his intention. (It really _was_ a funny story, but he was in no mood to tell it right now. Besides, it would be much better to wait until his brother was there to share in the telling.) He opened the door, greeting Agnes and Catherine as they approached the house. 

What Agnes and Catherine had in mind was a sort of scrying spell. “We can detect magical residues in a place,” Agnes explained, as she spread out a map of Bristol and its environs on the floor, after George moved the coffee table to make space. Loki nodded; to him, magic left behind something he could best describe as a smell, though there were other elements to it, and he could extend his senses to detect magical residues in his immediate vicinity. “If the three of us link our powers,” Agnes went on, “I believe we can extend our range considerably. We may not detect all the magical residues in Bristol, but any significant magic, we should be able to see.” She gestured to the map spread out before her. “This is more for reference, so we can try to localize the magic we find.”

“That’s clever,” Mitchell remarked admiringly, squatting down a little behind Loki and looking at the map over his shoulder. “Will George and Annie and I be able to see the residues on the map?”

Agnes shook her head, but Loki said, “I could conjure an image of what we see to overlay the map.” He turned to Agnes. “If it will not interfere with your scrying.”

“No, that will be fine,” Agnes said. She settled herself more comfortably on the floor and held out her hands to him and Catherine, who had sat on her other side. The three of them linked hands and closed their eyes.

The sensation of linking powers with Agnes and Catherine was familiar to Loki, from having done so when they liberated Scamp from her ghostly imprisonment in an abandoned churchyard that fall. He felt Agnes’s consciousness brush up against his, and he opened himself to her, breathing deeply. After a moment he became aware of Catherine, as well. A warmth built in him as his power awoke and flowed out of him to meld with theirs; even with his eyes closed, he could sense, almost see, an orb of warmth and light enveloping the three sorcerers.

Agnes directed the spell, carrying Loki and Catherine along as she reached out, extending magical senses over the streets and alleyways of Bristol, brushing over houses and trees and cars, people and animals, churches and temples and hospitals and schools. Loki kept a corner of his consciousness separate, and he used that to draw a tiny thread away from their shared power and conjure an image of what he saw over the map for his housemates. As they came across the traces of magic use in the city, he represented them with tiny lights on the map. Annie let out a soft “oh!” when the first one appeared; soon it looked like a handful of stars had been scattered over it. The magic they represented was harmless; Loki could not tell what most of it was for, but he detected no sense of darkness or destruction in any of it. Until—

At the southern edge of the city, darkness. A miasma of power, hanging about an old stone church. Connected as they were, he felt Agnes and Catherine’s reactions, much like his own: revulsion and fear; and from Catherine, no small amount of anger. It felt dark, oily; it smelled of sulphur and old blood. Loki represented it on the map as his magical senses saw it, an ashy, red-black smoke.

“That’s it,” he whispered. The three sorcerers remained as they were, senses extended, examining the cloud of residual magic from every angle, though they did not dare to touch it. They ranged over the city once more, searching for any other traces of the dark power, before Agnes withdrew and they all opened their eyes, releasing each other’s hands.

Loki let out a breath and slouched a little, allowing his body to release some of its tension. Agnes and Catherine did the same, stretching shoulders and necks, and they all contemplated the smoky cloud Loki had conjured, still hovering over the map of Bristol between them. “What do you think?” Loki asked, after a few moments had passed.

Catherine glanced at him. “That we are dealing with something not of this world,” she said. 

Agnes, her eyes still on the map, nodded in agreement. “So much magical energy in one place like that indicates a portal between worlds.”

“And I’m guessing that whatever world it goes to isn’t very nice,” Mitchell spoke up. He still sat beside and slightly behind Loki, peering over his shoulder.

“I should think not,” Loki replied. “The magic feels like”—He wriggled, searching for a word—“like death. It smelled like blood, and rotting things, and sulfur. The same as when Herrick disappeared, only stronger.” He shuddered. Across from him, Annie shuddered as well.

“Do either of you have any experience with this sort of thing?” she asked Agnes and Catherine.

Catherine nodded. “Some,” she said. Grimaced. “More than I’d like, to be truthful.” They looked at her curiously, but she did not elaborate.

“So what now?” George asked.

“Well, we’re one step closer to knowing what it is we’re dealing with,” Catherine replied. “We have a where, and based on the magical energy, I’d say it’s a pretty good guess that there’s some kind of demon involved. The question now is whether a human sorcerer summoned and bound it, or whether it found its own way across and is using a human sorcerer to its own ends.”

Loki traced a finger over the streets printed on the map in front of him, following them around the area where the red-black cloud still hung. “Then it seems we must pay our new sorcerer friend a visit,” he murmured.

***

It was late by the time the witches left, after much discussion—over tea and biscuits, of course—and argument about the best approach for collecting more information about the sorcerer who seemed to be behind Herrick’s return. Loki suggested he go investigate on his own as a bird, but George pointed out that he would be able to do little else than take a look around outside in that form. Mitchell advocated a more traditional breaking-and-entering approach—himself, accompanied by Annie, since they would not be picked up by any security cameras—a plan that Loki quickly rejected, both for the reason that Mitchell would probably not be able to enter the church and its grounds, and for the danger it would pose to Annie, not to mention that Mitchell was still recovering from his injury and was in no shape for breaking and entering, anyway. It was Catherine who finally suggested that she, Agnes, and Loki attend the church service on Sunday.

“It will give us a reason to be there, and to spend time in the building and on the grounds,” she pointed out. “We will be noticed as newcomers, but we can pose as people considering moving to the neighborhood.”

“And I can change our appearances,” Loki added, warming to the idea—not least because he was curious about what a church service would be like. 

“That cover story gives you a reason to talk to people, too,” Mitchell mused. “But won’t another sorcerer recognize you as magic users?”

“I can cloak our magical abilities,” Loki said, at the same time Agnes said, “It depends.”

Agnes continued, “If we are dealing with someone strong enough to summon and bind a demon from another realm, then it is unlikely we will go undetected. If, on the other hand, we are dealing with an amateur being manipulated, we may well be able to conceal ourselves. In any case, we are much more likely to go unrecognized than any of the three of you.” She nodded apologetically to George, Mitchell, and Annie, who all shrugged. George, for one, had no great desire to go charging into a dangerous situation in which he would have little to contribute and no way to defend himself; Mitchell disliked sitting on the sidelines, but he knew, too, that he was unlikely to be back to his full strength even by Sunday, and besides, Loki had a point about his probably being unable to enter the church; Annie saw the sense of staying behind, too, especially considering Catherine’s earlier warning to her about her reputation in the supernatural world, and the danger it might put her, and her friends, in.

“I believe it’s a risk worth taking,” Catherine said. “Whoever or whatever our magic user is, I doubt that they will openly attack us while we attend church.”

The comment elicited a dry little chuckle from Mitchell, who agreed, “Probably not. Creatures like that survive by hiding, same as any of us. If it’s using the church, it’s probably some kind of cover, and it won’t want to risk losing that.”

They agreed to meet at the tea room on Sunday morning, and drive together to the church in Catherine’s car. Agnes and Catherine finished their tea and took their leave. Loki had barely closed the door behind them before he excused himself, pleading exhaustion and a growing headache, and went upstairs to bed. Annie went with him, leaving Mitchell and George alone in the lounge. 

“Want a beer?” George asked. Mitchell nodded, and he went to the kitchen, coming back with one for each of them. He flopped back down next to him on the couch and picked up the television remote. “We’ve missed _The Real Hustle,_ ” he said regretfully, as he turned on the television.

Mitchell grunted agreement and took a long swallow of his beer. He let his head fall back against the cushion and half-closed his eyes. He was tired, and his chest ached, but he didn’t want to go to bed. It was better, to sit here with George, and know he wasn’t alone. The two of them sat in companionable silence for a few minutes while George flipped through the late night shows, the lounge lit by the television’s flickering blue light and the glow that filtered in from the street lamps outside.

Eventually, George said, “Loki said you had a rough night last night.”

Mitchell looked at him sidelong and raised an eyebrow. 

George smiled. “Okay, well, what he actually said was, ‘Mitchell had a very upsetting nightmare this morning. It might help him to talk with you about it,’” he said, doing a passable imitation of Loki’s voice. “Which I translated to, you had a rough night.”

Mitchell huffed a laugh and took another long swallow of his beer. After a moment, he said quietly, avoiding George’s eyes, “I dreamed I killed him. When he let me drink from him. I dreamed I lost control and”—his voice caught—“killed him.”

George made a sympathetic noise. “I used to dream about the wolf,” he said in a low voice. “I would be awake, inside it, watching, but I couldn’t control it. I would just watch it, tearing everything apart. Killing people I loved. My family.”

“But not anymore?”

George shook his head. “Not for a long time.”

After a moment Mitchell said, his voice rough, “It felt…very real.”

“But it wasn’t,” George said.

“No,” Mitchell agreed. “But I still…” He trailed off, shuddered. He had been able to shed the sensations of the dream during the day, but now that it was night again, it felt uncomfortably close. “I’m not particularly keen on trying to sleep right now,” he said.

“That’s understandable,” George said. They lapsed into silence, watching Graham Norton with the volume too low to hear the jokes. After a few moments, George said, “You know, Mitchell, drinking from Loki wasn’t…you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mitchell blinked, turned his head to stare at him.

George stared back. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing, it’s just—that’s almost exactly what Loki said to me this morning.” He looked away, drank his beer. “I didn’t know I was that easy to read,” he added, a trace of his usual good humor in his voice.

“Well, he’s right,” George said.

Mitchell heaved a sigh. “I know,” he said. George looked skeptical. “I do, George,” he insisted. “I really do. Rationally, I know it, but…” He gestured. “I can’t stop thinking, _what if_ …? What if I hadn’t been able to stay in control? What if—”

“Mitchell.” George’s tone was stern. Mitchell looked at him. “Now _you_ sound like Loki. And not in a good way.”

Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

“You’re feeling guilty about something you didn’t do,” George pointed out. “If it were him talking, we both know he’d be soaking wet by now. The only reason _you’re_ not is because I’m too lazy to go get the spray bottle from the kitchen.”

Mitchell chuckled, miserably. “You’re right,” he conceded. He shook his head. “I’m just…afraid I’ve opened a door that I won’t be able to close.”

George thought for a moment. Then he asked, “Well, have you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, do you want to drink blood? Are you having cravings?” He shrugged. “I don’t know, do you need us to tie you up in the cellar or something?”

Mitchell’s laugh had more humor in it, this time. “My bedroom would do just fine if it comes to that, thank you,” he said. “But…no. I’m not craving it, I’m just afraid I _will_.”

“Does it ever just come out of the blue like that?” George asked.

Mitchell shook his head. “No. Not after the first few weeks after I stopped. I still _want_ it, but for it to get bad enough that I might actually do something about it, there has to be some sort of trigger.”

“And drinking Loki’s blood didn’t trigger you.”

“No. I mean, it was hard, I didn’t want to stop, but—I had control of myself. And his blood was different. It affected me differently.” It felt strange, to be speaking so openly to George of what it felt like to drink someone’s blood—and not just “someone’s.” Loki’s. But it also felt—not bad. Only strange. George’s face was open, concerned; he didn’t shrink from him in horror. Mitchell felt something loosening up inside him, a knot of shame he had not realized he was carrying. He added, “It didn’t make me high the way it usually does.”

“You’re not feeling cravings for his blood, in particular?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t feel a desire to attack Agnes and Catherine tonight.” It was a statement, not a question. Mitchell shook his head. George raised his eyebrows. “Mitchell.” He gripped his shoulder, his hand warm. “You’re _fine_. You are not going to kill anyone.”

“No,” Mitchell agreed, and laughed a little. “That’s…actually really helpful, George,” he said, surprised.

George raised his beer in an ironic toast. “Well, I am very good at thinking myself into corners,” he said. “But sometimes I can think a way out of them.”

Mitchell smiled, raised his bottle in turn. “Thanks, mate.”

They lapsed into silence again for a time, until George said, fidgeting a little. “You know, Nina and I—it doesn’t change things between you and me.”

Mitchell blinked at him, bemused. “Don’t be stupid, George, of course it changes things.” He studied his friend for a moment. “What’s brought this on?”

George shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “I just want you to know that…you know. I’m here for you.”

“‘Course you are,” Mitchell said, with an ease that was only partly feigned. He knew that George would go his own way eventually, though he hoped that, wherever his life took him, it wouldn’t take him out of Mitchell’s completely. It made him sad to think of their little family no longer together in the pink house, but he also knew, beyond any doubt, that George had a life ahead of him that encompassed far more than working as a hospital porter and hiding in the shadows, and he wanted all of that for him, acutely aware of the brevity of his mortal friend’s life. It was something he didn’t allow himself to think on very often, or for very long; ruthlessly, he quashed the fear that rose up in him, that he would be alone again, reminding himself that Loki and Annie were as immortal as he was—though the thought of losing George left him feeling bereft. “We’ll always be friends, George, even if things change,” he said. Added, “When things change. We both know they will, eventually.”

George relaxed a little. “I know. I just mean, even if Nina and I—” He broke off, as if suddenly realizing he was about to say too much. Mitchell’s eyes narrowed.

“Even if you and Nina what?”

George flushed and looked away, hitching one shoulder. “Nothing.”

“ _George._ ” Mitchell felt a grin spread across his face, his worries fading. “You’re not planning to—are you going to ask Nina to marry you?”

George’s flush deepened. He shrugged again and began to pick at the label on his beer bottle. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, maybe. Eventually. We haven’t even been dating for that long, but…yeah. I think…eventually, yeah.” Shrugged again. “I love her. I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Mitchell let out a low, delighted laugh. “ _George,_ ” he said again. He slapped his back enthusiastically. “Good for you.”

George ducked his head, smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it is. It’s really good.” Mitchell’s grin, if it was possible, got even wider, his eyes sparkling. “What?” George asked after a moment. Mitchell bit his lip, stifling a giggle. George drew himself up, indignant. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothing,” Mitchell chortled. “I’m just imagining a bunch of miniature Georges running around.” He slapped George on the back again, gleefully. “I’m going to be an uncle!”

“Well, let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves,” George said. And then he grinned and giggled and said, “I’m going to be a dad! One day.”

“Whenever it happens, you’re going to be an am _azing_ dad.”

“You think?”

“Totally. And your kids are going to be a _dor_ able.”

George preened a little. “I _was_ a very cute baby,” he admitted. They sat there for a few moments, grinning and giggling at their own visions of a far-distant future. Then George sobered and turned wistful. “That was on my list, you know,” he said.

“Your list?”

“Of things I wanted. Wife, kids. I thought I’d lost any possibility for that life, after…” He trailed off. “If I hadn’t met you…”

Mitchell scoffed. “You would have been fine, George.”

“No.” George shook his head. “I would not have been fine. Do you remember the night we met?”

Mitchell nodded.

“You saved my life, remember? And do you remember what I said to you?”

Mitchell nodded again. “Yeah. I told you you had to leave, because they would come back, and you said, ‘And then what?’ And”—he gestured, taking in himself, the room, Annie and Loki sleeping upstairs—“There was this.”

“There was this,” George agreed. “The house. Annie. Loki.” Pause. “Nina.”

“Not to mention the Avengers,” Mitchell added, a grin tugging at his mouth.

George smiled and took a deep breath. “You saved my life,” he repeated. “I don’t just mean from Seth and them. Even if they hadn’t killed me that night…I would have done it myself before very long. I was thinking about it. I thought…there wasn’t anything for me, anymore. Just hiding and trying not to kill anyone. You gave me hope again.” He swallowed hard, went on softly, “That was when I stopped having the dreams, you know. After I met you.”

Mitchell bowed his head. After a moment he said, “You gave _me_ hope.” He smiled, gently cuffed George on the shoulder. “Gave me a reason to get back on the wagon and stay there.”

“You haven’t fallen off,” George said.

Mitchell looked down at his hands, rolled the beer bottle between them. “I know,” he said. His voice was quiet, but he sounded as though he actually believed it.

“Good.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You tired?” Mitchell asked.

George shrugged. “I could stay up.”

“Want to watch a film?”

“Did you have something in mind?”

“Well…” Mitchell’s tone turned wheedling. “Annie and I watched _The Fellowship of the Ring_ this afternoon…”

George grinned and got to his feet. “If there is one thing I never get tired of, it’s watching Aragorn kick arse.” He held up his own empty bottle and raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “Want another?”


	8. Chapter 8

Annie couldn’t sleep.

Insomnia was nothing new to her, of course; she hadn’t slept for nearly two years after she’d died. There was even something she had come to enjoy about being awake in the small hours, wandering through the pink house with its sleeping occupants. She had imagined herself as a sort of guardian, watching over her friends while they slept. But she had gotten into the habit of sleeping over the last several months, since she had dealt with Owen, exorcised him from her life—or at least her afterlife. Funny for a ghost to think of exorcising a live person, but it made sense to her: Owen had, after all, tried to possess her, and for a time he had succeeded. Confronting what he had done and putting it behind her had brought her peace, and a greater ability to be open to, and take comfort in, her friends—especially Loki.

Ordinarily, she slept when he did. Even if she wasn’t tired, she liked to lie with him in bed, to feel the faint warmth of his body against her and the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Ordinarily, the rhythm of his breathing was enough to lull her into sleep, at least for a few hours. It had been a long time since she was unable to sleep at all.

Annie wanted badly to talk with Loki about the things they had learned that day, especially what Catherine had said about the particular danger to Annie, but he had been so exhausted from spellcasting—and, Annie thought, the worry—that he had barely paused long enough to wash before he crawled into bed and fell asleep. So she lay awake while he slept, listening to the low murmur of George and Mitchell’s voices downstairs, and then the din of the telly, and over both the creaks and whispers an old house made. She might have liked to join the boys downstairs for whatever they were watching, but she had gone upstairs when she did specifically to give the two of them some time alone. She knew Loki had mentioned Mitchell’s dream to George, and she hoped that Mitchell had been able to talk about it with him in a way that he hadn’t with her and Loki. At least Loki was too deeply asleep to be disturbed by her restlessness.

Eventually, though, the house quieted, and Annie heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs. When she was sure everyone was in bed, she got up, kissed Loki softly, and went downstairs. She tried to imagine herself, again, as a guardian in the quiet house, but it was more difficult in the wake of the previous day’s revelations. If she was the target of this demon, then how much danger were her friends in? Had Mitchell been attacked because of her? How could she look after her friends when her very presence might be a danger to them?

_Stop that,_ she told herself firmly, knowing it was what she would say to Loki if he began talking like that—accompanied by a blast of water to the face from the pink spray bottle. _Whatever’s going on, we’ll find out what it is and we’ll face it. Together._

At the bottom of the stairs, she peeked into the lounge, quiet now. George had gone up to bed, but Mitchell was still there, fast asleep, curled on his side in the corner of the sofa. Annie smiled, relieved to see him sleeping peacefully after the way he had woken that morning. He had a blanket over him; Annie went into the lounge and tucked it more firmly about him, then retreated to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. She couldn’t drink it, but the aroma calmed her, and the warmth of the mug—faint as it was to her—felt good when she held it in her hands.

Consequences. Mitchell had said that turning down her door would have consequences, and Loki had repeated it today. Were these the consequences? What happened to spirits who refused to pass over? Since she had refused to walk through her door, Annie’s presence in what Loki would call this realm had become firmer, more real: people could see her, unless she chose to make herself invisible; she was more solid than she had been; and the abilities that had begun to emerge when her memories of Owen surfaced had gained in power, as she had gained more control over them. All good things, in Annie’s book; but what were the other ramifications to her choice? Had she, she wondered, upset some sort of cosmic balance in choosing to stay?

What was on the other side of the door? 

The sky lightened slowly while she thought and her tea grew cold. The soft rustle of the bead curtain as Loki came into the kitchen brought her attention back to the room. He was still in his pajamas, blinking sleepily and pushing his fingers back through his hair.

“Good morning,” she said, keeping her voice low to avoid waking Mitchell. She rose up on tiptoe to kiss him, and then went for the tea things.

He smiled back. “Hello.” Watched her while she set the kettle to boil and measured tea, then went to pour himself a bowl of cereal. “Did you sleep at all?”

Annie shrugged. “Couldn’t,” she admitted. She glanced at him, and saw the little furrow of worry between his brows. “I was just thinking,” she said. 

The furrow didn’t go away. “What about?”

“Consequences.” She set down the fresh cup of tea in front of him and took the seat opposite his.

“Ah.” He studied her face for a moment. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Yes. But not right now.” She glanced at the clock. Loki had slept late, for him—which was good, he needed the rest—but he would need to leave for work soon. “You’ll be late,” she said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes while Loki ate his breakfast. Knowing he was dissatisfied with her answer, Annie said, “I was just thinking about my place in all of this. How much any of this might be about—about getting to _me_. I don’t like it”

“No.” Loki scowled into his cereal. “I do not, either,” he said, tapping his spoon against the rim of the bowl. “Any of it.”

Annie sighed and reached across the table and clasped his hand. “We’ll be all right.”

Loki was silent for a moment. He looked at her, letting her see the vulnerability he normally kept hidden away, his deep fear that everything might yet fall apart, and asked, “How can you be sure?”

Annie squeezed his hand. “We have each other.”

***

Mitchell was still asleep in the lounge when Loki left for work. The flash of fear Loki had let Annie see was gone, replaced by a look of grim determination that softened a little when Annie admonished him to smile, or he would scare the children.

“The children know better than to be frightened of me,” he chuckled. “It’s the adults you should worry about.”

Annie prowled around the house for a little while after he left, too restless to read and tired of sitting still. She put in a load of washing, washed up the dishes in the sink, and tidied the entryway, Scamp following her back and forth with her tail wagging. Finally, at a loss for anything else to do in the house (since she couldn’t hoover without waking Mitchell), Annie looked down at the dog and asked, “What would you say to a walk, hm?”

Scamp wagged her tail so hard her entire body wriggled. Annie grinned, wrote a quick note for Mitchell and George, and headed outside, breathing in a sigh of relief as she closed the door behind her. Except to go see Catherine the day before, Annie hadn’t been out of the house in days. It felt good to be out of doors, and just walk aimlessly through the neighborhood with Scamp trotting at her heels.

Most of the businesses in Totterdown were still closed at this hour, and the streets were empty except for a few passing cars and the bus rumbling by. Annie wandered a bit, and then trailed invisibly after the postman, peering over his shoulder at the letters and parcels as he delivered them, and making the occasional comment to Scamp.

“That looks boring, probably a bill,” she remarked; and then, at the next address, “Ooh, package! I wonder what they got?” Confidentially to Scamp: “I loved getting packages when I was alive. I’d probably still love it, if everyone who would send me a package didn’t already live with me.” Not strictly true, she acknowledged inwardly after a moment. She thought Thor would probably send her a package if she asked (after she explained the whole concept of the post to him), or Agent Coulson. Or Tony Stark. She smothered a giggle when she thought about what he might send.

Scamp panted and wagged her tail.

They walked with the postman a little further, until the sound of a police siren caught her attention. Annie looked around, followed the sound to the mouth of an alleyway where a police car was parked, its lights flashing.

“…probably hasn’t been dead for more than an hour,” a policewoman was saying to her partner. “Most likely an overdose. He was a known user.”

They were standing over a body of a young man lying halfway down the alley. Still invisible, Annie crept forward. A little way off, the same young man stood watching the scene before him. Annie knew he was young, but he didn’t look it, his body ravaged by drugs and poverty, his face dirty and hopeless, his clothes threadbare and inadequate for the early spring chill. 

“Hello?” Annie called. She stopped when she was still some distance off, and Scamp sat down at her feet. The man glanced from his body to her, but he didn’t say anything. He looked frightened. “Do you understand what’s happened to you?” Annie asked.

He nodded, looking back at his body. Annie made to step forward, but Scamp pressed herself firmly into the ground and leaned into Annie’s legs, preventing her from moving. The dog looked at the other ghost and her tail thumped once, in what Annie thought might not be the most friendly way. She stayed where she was.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He fixed her with a suddenly sharp gaze. “They told me to wait for you,” he said. He started to move toward her.

Annie’s mouth went dry, and—odd, for a dead person—she felt her heart thumping in her chest, or she imagined she did. She stepped back. Scamp stood and placed herself between him and Annie, a low growl rumbling in her throat. As he approached, Scamp’s fur coarsened, stood up, and her body began to elongate and change shape. Her lips pulled back from ferocious teeth, and her eyes turned red and glowing. Annie looked from the Grim to the young man, terrified and bewildered. “What do you mean?” she asked. “Who?”

He stopped, hesitated a moment, and then continued forward, reaching for her. “They said you would come. They said I had to bring you with me.” Behind him, a door appeared in the brick wall of the alley, heavy metal with a round window in it. It opened, and Annie felt a pull. It started as a light tug, and then it became stronger, as if a hundred pairs of invisible hands were reaching through to pull her to the other side. She set her jaw and stepped backwards, trembling and breathing hard through dry lips at the effort of it. That was _not_ her door, and she was _not_ going through it. When she crossed to the other side, it would be under her own power, and in her own time. No one else’s.

Scamp’s growl rumbled louder. She crouched in front of Annie, teeth bared. The man came closer. She barked a warning, and then launched herself at him. Her jaws closed closed around his upraised arm, and as they did, a wind rose up. It tore at him, but did not touch Annie or Scamp. The man’s mouth opened in a scream that was lost beneath the roar. His body became transparent, wispy, and began to pull toward the door. Scamp held on, growling through her teeth, as the strange wind tore his wispy form to shreds, and then he was gone, and so was the door.

Annie stumbled backward and collapsed against the wall, sliding down it to sit on the pavement. She covered her face in her trembling hands. Scamp shrank, changed back to her regular shape, and trotted over to nuzzle Annie with her wet nose. Annie patted her and scratched her ears.

“Thanks, girl,” she said, her voice still shaky. She looked up at the wall where the door had been. “I think you just saved my—” She broke off as a slightly manic laugh rose up in her throat. “my afterlife,” she finished, taking comfort in the dog’s ghostly presence. Scamp panted and licked her face. “What was that?” she wondered aloud.

“That was a door,” a voice said. “Someone is very upset that you haven’t crossed over.” 

Annie started, looked around, and found the owner of the voice leaning against the bricks closer to the entrance of the alley, watching the police officers and now paramedics who were in the process of collecting the body, oblivious to the supernatural goings-on around them. He looked young, around Annie’s age, but he was dressed in a military uniform that Annie thought came from World War II. He inclined his head toward Scamp. “You’re lucky you had that Grim with you,” he said. His expression turned curious. “How’d you manage to get one? Shouldn’t it be bound to a church?”

“She,” Annie corrected, still petting her. “Her name’s Scamp. We—my friends and I—we rescued her.” She managed to get her feet back under her and stood. “Who are you?”

He pushed away from the wall and assumed a more formal posture as she approached him. “Sykes,” he said. He extended his hand and gave her a firm handshake. “Pleased to meet you, Annie Sawyer.” And he turned on his heel and started out of the alley.

For a moment, Annie could only stand there and stare, open-mouthed, before she dashed after him. “Wait!” She fell in beside him, hurrying to keep up with his long strides. “How do you know my name?”

He glanced at her, smirked. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“My reputation?”

“You don’t resist death’s door—twice, now—without developing a reputation,” Sykes said.

“But—I don’t understand,” Annie said. “What did you mean, someone’s upset I didn’t cross over? Who? How did that man know to wait for me?”

Sykes sighed and stopped walking. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “There are those on the other side that don’t like to have their rules questioned. You resolve the unfinished business of your life, you cross over. They reckon there’s a balance to be kept.”

“Is there?”

He shrugged. “I reckon it’s because they don’t like it when people—ghosts—like us decide to judge for ourselves when our lives are resolved. It makes us too powerful.” He started walking again, slower this time.

“Us?” Annie asked. “You resisted death’s door, too?” 

He nodded. 

“How come?”

His glanced sidelong at her, one eyebrow arching. “That’s a personal question,” he said.

“Sorry.” They walked quietly for a bit, heading toward the river. “Can you help me?” Annie asked at last.

“Help you with what?” Sykes gestured to Scamp, trotting between them. “You’re pretty well protected. Just keep her with you.”

Annie shook her head. “No, this is…there’s something bigger going on. One of my friends was already almost killed, and we think it has to do with whatever’s behind the door.”

“And what do you want me to do about it?” he asked.

Annie stopped, brought up short by his apparent dismissal. “You must know _some_ thing,” she said. “You said we were powerful. What do you mean by that?”

He scoffed. “Surely you’ve noticed you can do things now you couldn’t before.”

Annie nodded. He gripped her shoulders. “You’re more _here_ ,” he said. “Most ghosts, they don’t know why they’re here, and they _want_ to move on, and that makes them easy to control. They’re only halfway here. You’ve _chosen_ to stay, and that makes you powerful. You’re rooted to this plane. They can’t control you.”

“But,” Annie said, “the man in the alley.”

“They use people. Vulnerable people: addicts, schizophrenics. They use televisions and radios to make contact. You have to learn how to recognize their agents.”

“How?”

“By reading their auras.” He started walking again, slowly.

“Can you teach me to do that?”

He shrugged.

“ _Will_ you?”

Another shrug.

Annie stopped. “Sykes. Please, you have to.”

He walked another few steps before he stopped as well, and spun around to face her. “I don’t _have_ to do anything,” he retorted.

“No, you don’t,” Annie agreed. “But this involves you, too, and you know it. Or do you think if they’re after me, they’re not after you, too?”

He smirked. “I can take care of myself.”

“But you won’t help anyone else? Sykes, you’re the first person I’ve met since all this started who knows anything about all of this. Please just—come over, talk to my friends, tell us what you know. I won’t ask any more of you.”

He sighed, looked skyward, shoved his hands in his pockets again. He thought for a long moment. Finally he lowered his head and looked at her. “Fine. But that’s it. I’ll come over and tell you what I know, but then I’m leaving. I’m not you’re babysitter, and I’m not taking responsibility for anyone but myself.”

“Fine,” she agreed, and wondered what had happened to make him so afraid that he might hurt people by trying to help them.

***

“Loki, calm down,” Mitchell said.

“No, I will not calm down!” Loki shouted. He had returned home from a relatively uneventful day at work—aside from an incident involving Patrick and Trevor and a great deal of mud, which had actually been quite amusing and helped pass the time—only to learn that the day had not been so uneventful after all. “Why didn’t you call me?” he stormed. 

“There was no reason to,” Annie said mildly. “I’m fine, and there was nothing you could do this morning that you can’t do now.” She sat on the couch, Sykes sitting on the armrest above her.

“Of course there was!” he cried, though he couldn’t think what. Loki was trembling, radiating fear and rage as he paced from one end of the lounge to the other. He knew he was overreacting, but somehow he felt unable to contain himself. He stopped by the mantel, whirled, gestured wildly. “They tried to take you!”

“And they _failed, _” Annie pointed out.__

__“What if they try again?”_ _

__“They will,” Sykes put in. Annie scowled at him._ _

__“Not helping,” she said under her breath. She turned back to Loki, said his name to get his attention. He stopped pacing and faced her, his body coiled tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said._ _

__He spluttered, threw his arms up in the air. “Doesn’t—! Of course it does, Annie! It—It—” It changed everything, because she was in danger, and more than just the general danger they were all in: specific-to-Annie danger, that he didn’t think he could protect her from._ _

__“What does it change?” she demanded. “We guessed I was in danger because I didn’t go through my door, and now we know for sure. And we know more.” She glanced at Sykes. “You still need to go the church on Sunday and find out what you can with Agnes and Catherine, and we still all need to be careful, and get on with things. We’ve been in danger before. We’ll weather this.”_ _

__Loki let out an exasperated huff and made as if to begin pacing again. Annie vanished from her seat on the couch and materialized in front of him, preventing him from going anywhere. She took his hands in both of hers. “Go for your run,” she told him._ _

__He blinked, surprised into stillness at her sudden pivot. “What?”_ _

__“Go for your run,” Annie repeated. “You’ve barely been all week, and you’re on edge, and we need you calm and able to think clearly, which you can’t right now. Okay?” She reached up and tucked his hair behind his ear._ _

__He looked down into her face for a long moment, his breathing still ragged but a little quieter. He looked around at his friends, at Sykes, and acknowledged that his agitation was not helping matters. “Okay,” he agreed at last. Looked back at Annie. “You should have sent me a message,” he said, quieter but still upset._ _

__Annie sighed, reached up and touched his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew you would be upset, and I didn’t think there was any reason for you to be upset the whole day.”_ _

__Loki took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and nodded. He knew Annie was right; there was no reason for her to have called in the middle of the day when there was nothing concrete he could do, except comfort her—and he could hardly begrudge Annie the hard-earned strength that meant she did not need to go running to someone else the moment something upsetting happened. No; this was about him, and soothing his own worries, and he knew it._ _

__Annie smiled. “Go. Blow off some steam, you’ll feel better.” She released his hands and stepped back. “Check out the alley while you’re out, if you want to,” she suggested._ _

__“I think I will,” he agreed, relieved to have something constructive to do, and went upstairs to change in to his running clothes._ _

__***_ _

__Annie was, of course, right; Loki needed to, in the idiom she had used, “blow off some steam.” He took a long route through the neighborhood. The chilly March air cleared his head, and the exercise calmed him enough that by the time he reached the alley Annie had directed him to, he was able to investigate with sharp curiosity rather than frantic need for information. He was not very surprised when all he found was a faint whiff of the blood-and-sulfur magic, but he spent some time examining the wall where Annie said the door had been, searching for traces that would give him an idea of what lay on the other side. Not unexpectedly, he found nothing._ _

__When he returned home an hour later, George had tea on. Loki joined the rest of his housemates in the lounge with a plate of food, feeling—as Annie had predicted—much better able to focus and think clearly about their situation. Sykes had weathered the day well enough in Annie, Mitchell, and George’s company, though he put on a show of being annoyed that Annie hadn’t mentioned he wouldn’t be able to keep his promise to talk to all of them until the evening, after Loki returned from the school and before George left for his shift at the hospital. Loki, not for nothing a keen observer of people, saw it for what it was, and noted with approval that Sykes seemed to be concealing genuine concern, and interest in their situation, behind his cool exterior._ _

__“So,” Loki said, when he had settled himself on the couch beside Annie. He looked expectantly at Sykes, having gotten only the barest outline of the morning’s events before his run._ _

__“The door,” Annie said to Sykes. “What do you know about what’s on the other side? Because the one this morning, that he tried to pull me through, it felt different. Mine felt…I don’t know, warm. This one felt…”_ _

__“Wrong?” Sykes suggested._ _

__Annie nodded. “And,” she added, with a shrug and a flutter of hands, “a little, well, evil.”_ _

__Loki resisted the urge to flinch and instead looked at Sykes, waiting for his answer. It wasn’t only that he was worried about their immediate circumstances; it was the thought that, if all the doors led to the same place, and Annie would eventually pass through one…well, he did not want to think of her going someplace even “a little, well, evil.”_ _

__Sykes folded his hands in his lap, thinking. “The other side isn’t all one thing or the other,” he said at last. “It’s not heaven or hell, it’s just…another world, with different rules than this one. What’s on the other side of the door when you cross over has to do with what kind of life you lived—to an extent. But there’s some movement on the other side, too. You don’t spend eternity in one place.”_ _

__“Have you been there?” Loki asked._ _

__“Noooo,” Sykes said emphatically, shaking his head. “No. That’s not a journey you return from.”_ _

__Annie licked her lips. “So what about ghosts like you and me? What happens to us?”_ _

__“You have to show the men behind the door who’s boss,” Sykes said. “They want to pull you through, and they don’t care which door it’s through, or where it goes, they just want you. If you can convince them that you’re strong enough to call the shots, then they’ll leave you alone until you decide you’re ready to cross over.”_ _

__“But why?” Mitchell asked. “I mean, what do they care?”_ _

__Sykes glanced at Annie, who answered, “Sykes reckons it’s a power play on their part,” she said. “When ghosts stick around too long, we’re more _here_ , and we get powerful. _They_ reckon they’re keeping some sort of cosmic balance.”_ _

__Mitchell nodded thoughtfully. “So,” he asked, “what about Herrick?”_ _

__Sykes looked at him blankly._ _

__“Herrick was—is—the vampire who attacked Mitchell,” Annie explained. “But he was dead. I mean, really dead. I staked him.”_ _

__Sykes raised his eyebrows and let out a low whistle. “That’s…I don’t know, mate,” he said after a moment. “I don’t know what happens to vampires after they’re”—he gestured—“you know.”_ _

__“But if the other side is so big, then it’s possible they end up there, too?” George asked._ _

__“There was a trace of magic in the alley where it happened,” Loki put in. “It was the same as the magic that accompanied Herrick in the hospital, and as what is around that church.”_ _

__“I suppose it’s possible.” Sykes shook his head, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry, this is way beyond my ken. I can help Annie with her door problem, but I’ve never even heard of a vampire coming back after being dusted.”_ _

__“Well, that’s a start.” Annie said. She squared her shoulders. “How do I show the men behind the doors that I’m in charge?”_ _

__“You have to learn how to close doors,” Sykes said. He glanced at Scamp, curled up in her basket beside the couch. “And you have to be able to do it without your Grim.”_ _


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness, there's a plot. 
> 
> This chapter involves some discussion of religion that I hope doesn't offend anyone. In the first case, I'm writing from the point of view of a zealot. In the second, well…I realize that Loki's understanding of certain rituals is imperfect, but let's just go with it. (*My* understanding of certain rituals is also imperfect, but I was trying to stick to what I thought Loki's interpretation would be.)
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has been following along! I hope you continue to enjoy!

Though he had been a priest for nearly a decade when it happened, it was not until after his wife and daughter were killed by vampires that Patrick Kemp became a true believer.

Not, to be sure, that he had ever thought of himself as anything else; Kemp had felt his calling from a young age, and had been unwavering in pursuing it. When he took his holy orders, he had done so with a full and joyful heart, feeling at once the culmination of his life so far, and the beginning of a journey he would undertake with his faith as his stalwart guide. 

But it was only some eight years later that his faith had quickened, and truly taken root, the night he came home from administering an evening mass to find the bodies of his wife and child lying in pools of their own blood, and _creatures_ that looked like men, with eyes black as the void and sharp fangs in their blood-smeared mouths kneeling over them. He had been awakened to the presence of true evil in the world. As he held their bodies to him, he had vowed to serve God not only by celebrating the goodness of His works, but also by working to cleanse the world of the Devil’s works—beginning with hunting, and destroying, the creatures that had killed his family, and as many like them as he could find.

He had traveled for a time, taking up temporary posts, seeking out and killing vampires. He discovered others who had taken up the same mission, a network of church men and women who traded arcane knowledge and ancient weapons carried by legendary warriors who shared their calling—a holy order of warriors with roots reaching back to the Crusades, and the Templar Knights. Through them Kemp learned of the existence of other creatures than vampires: witches, werewolves, and ghosts all polluted this world he had vowed to protect, and make pure, for God’s children. 

For over forty years, Kemp had pursued his mission with the zeal and focus of true faith. He performed exorcisms, hunted vampires, and tracked werewolves by the light of the full moon; but as he grew older, and felt his body beginning to fail, Kemp began to wonder if it made any difference, if he had done anything in his lifetime to stem the tide. He could feel his death drawing near, and with it, the greater drive to contemplation that came with age. He took a permanent post in Bristol, and settled there, focusing his efforts in the city and its environs. Forty years, and if anything, it seemed there were _more_ supernatural creatures in the world than there had been when he started.

He began to despair. And then, the Angel had appeared to him.

He had been praying, as he did often when sleep eluded him. Kneeling silently in the dark of his bedroom, he prayed for guidance—and guidance had come. 

The Angel appeared to him as a hazy outline, bathed in brilliant golden light. Its voice was as the chiming of church bells, at once terrible and sweet. It had told him of a way to rid this world forever of its demonic afflictions.

Kemp followed the Angel’s instructions to summon and bind the vampire Herrick, to do battle in his stead. It was not easy, to bind such an evil creature, but Kemp’s will was strong, and Angel assured him that the vampire was necessary; a tool, which could be set down in due time, with no damage to its user. It had directed him to the medium Alan Cortez. Just this morning, it had told him of the scientist who would cure the werewolves of their possession, and save the men and women so afflicted.

But most importantly, the Angel had told Kemp of the girl Annie Sawyer, who had refused to cross over when given the chance—who must cross over, to right the balance between worlds. Bring Annie Sawyer through the portal, the Angel promised, and the rest would follow in due course.

Patrick Kemp reflected on all this as he stood before his congregation, those men and women who had placed their souls in his care. He listened to the choir intone the Kyrie, and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the divine intervention that had shown him the path to purifying their world.

***

Under other circumstances, Loki thought he would have found the morning’s church service quite pleasant. He had greatly enjoyed attending Christmas Mass that December, when he and his housemates had joined the Avengers at Tony Stark’s mansion in Scotland to celebrate all the holidays that Tony could think of that took place in December. He had been looking forward to finding out what a more ordinary service would be like, and in its outlines Loki could see its appeal, why a person might take comfort in the simple rituals and the sense of community they created—though he was quite glad Annie had explained the service to him beforehand, or he might have been quite alarmed by the ceremony of the Eucharist. (He really did not understand how a religion that seemed to embrace symbolic cannibalism could be so uptight about a great many other things that were not nearly so alarming. An avid watcher of the parliamentary channel, Loki was no stranger to the obsessions of what was called the “far right,” most of which seemed to be aimed toward restricting adult citizens in their rights concerning who they might marry and whether they would procreate, all in the name of the same god they symbolically consumed each week to confirm the presence in humans of the divine. It baffled him to no end.) Still, Loki enjoyed the music, and the spirit of the words that were spoken; he wished he could better appreciate them.

As it was, he was having trouble paying attention, since he had to direct most of his energy toward sitting still and keeping a pleasant expression on his face, instead of gagging and retching up his breakfast.

The stench of dark magic had hit him, hard, the moment he got out of Catherine’s car, and he had to hold on to his door to steady himself. He supposed he should have expected that, given the residual magic he had been able to see when he linked his powers with Agnes and Catherine. The air felt thick with it. His nostrils flared, his mouth pulling into a grimace as he breathed in the magical signature. He felt it sinking in to his very pores, oily and sulfurous.

“Do you not smell it?” he asked Agnes as he folded his seat forward so that she could climb out of the back. (She had very graciously offered him the front to accommodate his long legs.)

Agnes looked at him strangely, then exchanged a glance with Catherine. “I sense it,” she said slowly, “but it seems you experience it rather more…viscerally than either of us.” She noted his nauseated expression and asked, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I will be,” Loki told her resolutely. It was not that he did not trust Agnes and Catherine to investigate on their own; but he was curious—desperate may have been a more accurate term, he admitted privately—to know what was going on here, and he wanted to take it in himself. Besides, three heads were better than one, or whatever the expression was. He took a deep breath—a mistake—swallowed hard, and schooled his face to neutrality. Then he smiled at Agnes and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

The story they had settled upon that morning had Loki and Agnes masquerading as a couple looking at homes in the area, and Catherine as Agnes’s sister. (Something else Loki would have quite enjoyed in other circumstances, for the sheer silliness of it. If there was any couple to be formed among the three of them, Loki thought, it certainly would not involve _him_. He suspected Agnes and Catherine of harboring similar amusement.) In the end, it was Agnes who altered their appearances, the three of them having decided that a full transformation would be safer in this case, since an experienced sorcerer might more easily see through an illusion, were he on the lookout. Knowing that maintaining such a spell would drain his reserves, Loki had deferred to Agnes on the matter, and soon they all would have been unrecognizable to their friends, should they see them: Agnes and Catherine both sported ginger hair and freckles, and Loki was now blond and curly-haired—not unlike the disguise he often chose for himself, Agnes must have similarly thought it would make him appear innocent—and rather rounder and softer than he was used to being. Loki took charge of concealing their supernatural status with a simple glamour, and added to it a second one that would cause everyone who met them today to find them eminently unremarkable people, and forget about about them within a few hours.

Fighting down his nausea, Loki contemplated the priest standing behind his podium. He was an older man, with a fringe of white hair around his ears and a prominent brow. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and resonant, full of sincere belief, but with an edge to it that made Loki uneasy.

He was, quite clearly to Loki’s eyes (and, well, nose), the center of the magic that permeated the church and its grounds. The sulfurous residue clung to him, though Loki could detect no trace of innate power about him. Not its source, then; more like a conduit, or a tool. And it was equally clear to Loki that this man had little, if any, concept of the kind of power he was playing with; neither its potency nor its nature. He could not decide if this made him more or less dangerous.

He was still pondering this when the service ended, and he, Catherine, and Agnes rose and joined the other members of the congregation as they filed outside, pausing to greet the priest as they did so. Loki felt a renewed jolt of sickness when he realized that he would be required to shake the man’s hand.

His reaction must have shown on his face, because the man standing next to him caught his eye and gave him a sympathetic smile. “Had too much to drink last night?” he asked.

Loki blinked, momentarily confused, then fell into his assumed role. He grimaced and cast a shamefaced look in Agnes’s direction. “I was visiting some friends I had not seen in a long time,” he extemporized. “Things got…a little out of hand.”

The man followed his glance toward Agnes and grinned, surmising, with an air of conspiracy, “The wife’s not so happy with you, eh?”

Loki shrugged and laughed, self-depracating. “It’s no more than I deserve,” he said. He offered his hand and introduced himself, using the false name he had come up with earlier. “My wife and I are in Bristol to look at houses,” he went on conversationally, indicating Agnes a second time, in conversation with Catherine and a young family who had been sitting near them. “Have you lived here long?”

Meeting the priest—Father Kemp—was every bit as unpleasant as Loki expected, but not, thankfully, anything like dangerous. He clearly did not recognize the three of them as anything other than the ordinary humans they appeared to be, and he treated them as such, bidding them farewell with the hope that Loki and Agnes would find a suitable home in the area and join their congregation. Loki put on his best smile and warmly agreed, all the while reaching out with his mind to try to discover more about what the priest was intending, or being used for. He did not particularly like using his power to touch another person’s mind—not only was it an extreme violation of privacy, but also, it was not something Loki was especially adept at—but sometimes one needed information, and had no other options. Now was one of those times, and so he allowed himself a delicate brush against the man’s consciousness. What he saw nearly made him recoil.

“That man is a fool,” Loki declared in tones of disgust, as soon as he had closed the car door and he, Catherine, and Agnes were buckling themselves in. He wiped his hand on his pants as if he could scrub away his recent contact with the man. He added, as Catherine pulled the car out of the parking lot, “And a fanatic.”

As soon as they were safely out of view of the church, Agnes let go of their transformations. Loki let out an inward sigh of relief as he felt his body shift back its regular proportions, glad to be back in his own familiar form.

“He is clearly a fool,” Catherine agreed. “What makes you say he’s a fanatic?”

“I touched his mind, just now,” Loki admitted. Catherine cast a sharp look in his direction. He resisted the urge to to raise his hands defensively, and instead arched an eyebrow and met her glance steadily. “I do not make a practice intruding on other people’s thoughts, but in this circumstance it seemed warranted. We need information.”

“You might have been caught.”

“I was careful; he did not detect me,” Loki replied. _Not that he would have known what he was sensing, even if he had,_ he added silently, but he knew better than to say it aloud.

“And?” Catherine prompted.

Loki’s mouth twisted. His brief contact with the priest had garnered a mess confusing images that he would need some time to sort out. One thing, however, was clear: “I believe he is quite mad,” he said. 

In the backseat, Agnes snorted indelicately. “I won’t argue with that,” she agreed. “If he wasn’t mad to start with, using that kind of dark magic, without any power of his own to protect him, would certainly unhinge him.”

“Indeed,” Catherine murmured. She glanced at Loki again. “What else were you able to learn?”

“I am not sure,” Loki admitted. “I am still sorting through it.” He closed his eyes, the better to focus on the images as he sifted through them. “A room, a basement or a cellar, I think in the church. Herrick. He is imprisoned there. Symbols. Magical runes, I think, but they are not familiar to me.”

He opened his eyes, tugging at his shirt collar. There was more, but trying to make sense of it right now, with the sulfurous smell of magic still clinging to him, was making him feel nauseated again. The motion of the car was not helping. He pushed his hands back through his hair, lifting it up off his neck.

“Would you mind terribly if I opened the window?” he asked. “I find I am still feeling rather ill.” Agnes and Catherine both made noises of assent. Loki rested his head against the window frame and turned his face into the bracing wind, for once not minding the cold. “Honestly,” he added after a moment, turning his head so they could hear him, “I cannot believe you couldn’t _smell_ it.”

***

When he woke on Sunday morning—from a thankfully dreamless sleep—Mitchell felt almost back to normal. The wound in his chest had healed, leaving behind a livid red scar that was beginning to fade to pink, and a dull but persistent ache in his chest. He thought it would be a few more days before he was back to his full strength, but in practice that simply meant he could not, for instance, lift a grown man off his feet and toss him across a room--a circumstance he hoped to avoid anyway, at least for the present. But he felt well enough to be getting restless, and was actually looking forward to going back to work on Monday.

The house was quiet when he went downstairs. Loki, he knew, would still be at church with Agnes and Catherine (the image in his mind made him snigger, not only because, well, _Loki_ at _church_ , but also because his brain insisted on envisioning Loki there in full God of Mischief costume, complete with horned helmet, engaging the priest in a metaphysical debate); and George had worked the overnight shift, so he would likely sleep at least until noon. In the kitchen, Mitchell found a note from Annie scribbled on the dry-erase board on the fridge where they left messages for one another, saying she had gone for a walk with Scamp (and adding that she promised to stay away from creepy alleys with corpses), and above it one from George, asking to be awakened when Loki returned with Agnes and Catherine so that he could hear what they had learned. Above that was a note in Loki's precise handwriting, saying that he had fed the kittens and to disregard their begging. Mitchell glanced down at the two black-and-white felines twining around his ankles and making forlorn noises at him in an attempt to convince him they were starving to death. "Sorry, guys," he said, and bent to pet them. "It looks like you're doomed to wait a few more hours before your next meal."

Elizabeth mewed piteously. Philip butted his head insistently against Mitchell's hand, demanding ear scratches in compensation. Mitchell laughed and obliged, then gently nudged the two of them out of the way so he could open the fridge and get the milk for his cereal. (He poured a little into the kittens' food bowls as well, with an admonition to them not to tell Loki.) 

Guessing he had close to an hour before Loki returned from his churchgoing expedition, Mitchell finished his cereal and decided to take advantage of having the house to himself—and, therefore, no one to compete with for hot water—and take a bath.

Loki was the one who always complained about the cold, but truthfully, Mitchell craved warmth as much as he did. It was all the more difficult for him to come by, since his body didn’t generate any heat of its own; one of the great temptations of his bloodlust was that, for a little while after he drank, Mitchell would be warm. That, at least, he had found a reasonable substitute for: a hot bath was almost as good.

He made the water so hot it was almost painful when he slipped under it, but his body cooled the water quickly, like an ice cube dropped into a cup of hot tea. His skin tingled and turned a healthy-looking—an alive-looking—pink, the flush traveling up his neck to his face. He dunked his head, then lay back against the side of the tub, the porcelain cold on his back, and inhaled the steam.

After close to a century, the memory of the physical sensations of being human—of a heartbeat, of warmth in his skin, of breathing air into a body that was infinitely more fragile than his current one—eluded him. He mourned the loss of that vitality, though his vampire body had its own gifts: strength and stamina beyond a human’s, heightened senses, and, of course, immortality—though for much of the last half-century, Mitchell had wondered whether that last was more of a curse than a gift. Until Annie and Loki came into his life, he had been certain he would eventually go back to the other vampires, and to Herrick. He had been loathe to repudiate them because they were the only other immortals he knew, his fellow travelers; whether he liked it or not, he was like them, in that respect, at least. Eventually, Mitchell would lose his mortal friends, either to death or to their inability to cope with what he was, and however much he may have hated the other vampires, hated what they were, Mitchell knew he would go back. Eventually, he would have nowhere else to go.

But Annie, and then Loki, had changed all that. It had happened slowly, first with the revelation of just how old Loki was, and how long his life would be; and later, with Annie’s refusal to cross over to the other side. And somewhere in between, Mitchell had stopped planning contingencies for the inevitable day that he would be alone again, when he would have to find a way to cope on his own. He knew other immortals, now; they were his fellow travelers.

Though they had all been reminded this week, rather forcibly, that immortality was not a sure thing, for any of them.

Mitchell remembered very little of the actual attack. What he did remember was a mess of confusing images and sensations: Herrick’s face, bright lights, his friends’ urgent voices, and hot, searing pain that shifted to a cold so intense it seemed to burn him from the inside out. After pain, had come weakness; and that had been more terrifying than the pain. He had felt insubstantial, paper thin, as if he might dissolve or blow away at any moment--which, of course, he would have, if Loki had not pulled the stake from his chest when he did.

And yet, they were all still here. Mitchell’s limbs felt heavy when he got out of the bath, giving him a welcome sense of solidity, along with the heat that suffused his body. They were here, and they had each other, and Mitchell was determined that that was how it was going to stay.

***

Loki still wasn't home when Mitchell came back downstairs, but Annie was sitting in the lounge with Scamp and the kittens, reading a magazine.

"Hello," Mitchell greeted her. He dropped onto the daybed. "Nice walk?"

"Mmhmm." Annie reached put her magazine aside and scratched Scamp's ears, to the ghost dog's obvious pleasure. "I was practicing."

"Practicing?" Mitchell raised an eyebrow.

"Sykes is teaching me to read auras," Annie explained. She frowned, thoughtful. "I think I was already starting to be able to, before I met him. Sometimes I would look at someone and just...know something about them. But I’m starting to be able to see more clearly.”

“Interesting,” Mitchell said, thoughtfully. “That’s pretty cool, actually,” he added after a moment. “Can you read mine?”

Annie looked suddenly uncomfortable. She twisted her hands together in her lap, but before she could answer, the sound of footfalls on the front stoop made Philip and Elizabeth prick their ears up, and then go trotting into the entryway to greet their faithful servant as he came in the door.

Mitchell looked askance at Annie, but he let the interruption end their conversation and got to his feet. “I’ll go get George,” he said.

***

Alone in his prison, deep in the bowels of the church, Herrick seethed.

He would have paced, had he been able. He was confined to a circle perhaps four feet in diameter, made by an unbroken line of salt on the floor of the large room. 

_Salt._ It was almost funny: that he should be back, that he should have power beyond anything he had possessed in his mortal or his undead lives, and that something so mundane as a line of _salt_ on the floor could imprison him. He could not touch it, could not cross it; it repelled him as surely as the entryway of a home where he had not been invited, or the grounds of a church—any church, it seemed, but this one.

Outside the circle, the walls, floor, and ceiling were inscribed with crosses, every bare inch of them. They burned his eyes and prickled the back of his neck, seemed to press on his skull. Closing his eyes did not help. They made his head pound.

Herrick dissolved himself into smoke and slammed his incorporeal form against the barrier that imprisoned him. He resolved back into his body with a noise of frustration.

“Tut tut,” a familiar voice scolded from the shadows. Herrick whirled as Kemp stepped out from the archway that led to the door. “You will tire yourself, and I have need of you.”

Herrick bared his teeth. “Do you?” he asked, with affected disinterest. He was hard pressed to hide his relief that he would have a few hours of freedom. A few hours, perhaps, to find a way out of this. A few hours, most certainly, to make sure he hit Mitchell where it would hurt.

Kemp strolled across the floor and handed Herrick a piece of paper with an address written on it. “There is a nest,” he said. “You will destroy it.”

Herrick took the paper. The spell that bound him to Kemp compelled him to carry out the man’s orders, but Herrick had learned rather quickly that it also allowed some leeway in the matter of _when_ he carried out those orders. Not a great deal, but enough for him to carry out some personal business.

“You will return by dawn,” Kemp told him, and opened the yellowed grimoire he held at his side. As he read from it, a wind rose up. The lights flickered. There was a flash, and Herrick was gone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Loki has a few things to learn about being a teacher, and things get back to normal for about five minutes.

“So where do we start?” George asked. “Wax on, wax off?” He waved his arms in the air.

Loki took a long moment to consider this frankly bewildering question, while Annie and Mitchell looked on with amusement. “I believe you are making reference to something with which I am unfamiliar,” he concluded at last.

Mitchell grinned, “I think I sense a movie night in our future,” he said, settling back on the couch with Philip and Elizabeth. They had pushed the sofa and coffee table against the wall. George was standing, a bit awkwardly, in the empty space, while Annie and Mitchell had charge of the kittens on the couch.

“Oh, let’s do that first,” George said. “ _Then_ I can learn to fight.”

Loki quelled his impatience. Between George’s work schedule and the unpredictable events of the past several days, there hadn’t been time for Loki to begin his fighting lessons, and in that time Loki had begun to detect a certain amount of reluctance on George’s part. George had agreed readily enough to do it this afternoon, but he still seemed apprehensive—which he guessed stemmed from insecurity, based on George’s earlier comment that he likely wouldn’t be any good. The sooner they got started, Loki thought, the sooner he could prove his friend wrong.

Loki still had a great deal of confused information to sort out from the morning’s visit to the church, but for the moment he was content to focus his energies on George’s lesson, and let what he had learned that morning settle. Additionally, he admitted, knowing that George was on his way to having some tools to defend himself would go a long way toward assuaging his own anxieties about the danger they were all in. Annie had pointed out that what Sykes had to teach her was likely to be more useful to her than learning physical fighting techniques, so she was sitting the lesson out, along with Mitchell, who, already having some training, had agreed to a sparring match after George’s lesson. 

His housemates were still talking about the film.

“The original, or the remake?” Annie asked.

“The original,” George and Mitchell replied in unison. “The remake is rubbish,” George added.

Annie looked at him skeptically. “Have you even seen the remake?”

“No,” George admitted, with a shrug.

“That’s because it’s rubbish,” Mitchell explained, with the exaggerated patience one employed when addressing someone who was being particularly thick. Annie rolled her eyes.

Despite his impatience, Loki followed their exchange with amusement, knowing that his housemates often had strong opinions about which versions of various films were superior. (Usually it was “the original,” especially where Mitchell was concerned.) 

“I look forward to seeing…” Loki began, then trailed off when he realized he didn’t know the name of the film.

“ _The Karate Kid_ ,” Annie supplied.

“ _The Karate Kid_.” He turned to George. “ _After_ your lesson.”

George groaned. “On second thought,” he said, “maybe you shouldn’t watch it. I don’t want you getting ideas.”

Mitchell giggled. “He might make you paint the house.”

Loki frowned. “But I like it pink,” he said, making Mitchell laugh harder. He was playing along, but silently he wondered what in the Nine painting the house had to do with teaching fighting skills. “I really do have to watch this film,” he murmured.

“You’ll love it,” Annie said.

“Anyway,” George said, seeming a bit more relaxed, “Where _do_ we start?”

Loki had given a great deal of thought to where he should start. He had never actually taught anyone combat skills, and Loki himself had begun learning at such a young age that the basic actions felt instinctual to him. But he did remember the endless drills that had taught his body how to react to threat without his having to think; he had taken to practicing them in the back garden after his evening runs, to keep himself sharp. He began with the most basic one, walking George through a series of simple blocks and blows.

It quickly became apparent, however, that Loki had overlooked something in his approach. George put in a strong effort, concentrating with his brow furrowed as he learned the drill and repeated it, but there was something off about his movements; his muscles were tense, his balance uncertain. When Loki introduced the counter moves to George’s actions, so that he might feel what it would be like to actually block a blow or attempt to break through a block, George became flustered, tripped over his feet, and lost track of the order of the drill completely.

“I’m _rubbish_ at this,” George moaned, after he struggled through it a second time, with Loki countering and giving instruction. He threw himself onto the daybed. 

“I wouldn’t say you’re rubbish, exactly,” Mitchell said, letting Philip out of his lap at last, now that there was no danger of the cat causing an accident. “You’re just…learning.”

“That’s a nice way of saying I’m rubbish,” George replied.

“ _Everyone’s_ rubbish when they first start doing something,” Annie said, in a more successfully reassuring tone. “I’m sure Loki can tell you he was rubbish when _he_ first started.”

Annie’s tone made it clear that he would answer in the affirmative whether it was true or not, but Loki had, indeed, been rubbish at fighting when he began learning—always the smallest and the weakest, an easy target for Thor and his friends and a disappointing student to impatient teachers. It was only when he began sneaking away to the barracks to learn from the soldiers that Loki had begun to make progress, with their more patient, and much less formal, guidance. 

“I was,” Loki said, sitting down beside George on the daybed. “I preferred running like hell and hiding until whoever it was got bored and went away.” That garnered a hint of a smile from George, but his posture remained slumped. It occurred to Loki that, as much as he loved Annie and Mitchell, George might feel more comfortable without an audience. He turned to them and suggested, “Perhaps you two could go to the video store to rent _The Karate Kid_ for this evening? And get a takeaway?”

At this, George perked up. “There’s that new Thai place that opened,” he suggested.

Once they had left, Loki said to George, “Shall we try again?”

The tension that had briefly left his friend returned. “All right,” he mumbled.

“George.” Loki placed his hands on George’s shoulders and shook him a little. “ _Relax_. This is new. And what’s more, _I_ am still learning. I have not tried to teach this to anyone before.”

George still looked dubious, but he nodded. “All right,” he said.

“Good. I think we should try something different,” Loki said. He pulled George to his feet. “Close your eyes.” When his friend looked dubiously at him, Loki held up his hands, see-I’m-unarmed. “I’m not going to do anything,” he promised. “I want you to feel your balance and your breath. Just close your eyes and stand normally. Now take a deep breath.” George complied, and Loki talked him through several deep breathing exercises. When he was satisfied that George was more relaxed, Loki instructed him to pay attention to each part of his body in turn, releasing tension and find his balance. His shoulders relaxed down his back, and George stood up a little straighter. “Now you can open your eyes. Keep breathing,” Loki reminded him.

He had George move back into the ready stance he had taught him earlier. He took George’s forearms and adjusted the position of his guard. “Keep your hands up here, to protect your head,” he said, then touched his tightly clenched fists. “Relax your hands.” Loki gave him a gentle push, that made George step out to the side to catch himself. Frustration flashed across his face, but he took a deep breath and found his stance again. “Put your weight in the balls of your feet,” Loki instructed. “And find your strength here.” He laid a hand on his own belly. “That will give you stability.” When he pushed him a second time, harder, George stayed where he was. They both smiled.

“That is where you begin,” Loki said, recalling what Balder, one of the soldiers who had taught him as a youth, had told him. “Relax, breathe, and find your balance. The rest comes from there.”

George nodded. “Relax, breathe, balance,” he repeated.

They worked through the drill then, and George moved more smoothly and confidently, putting more power behind his blows. They were finishing a third repetition when Annie and Mitchell came home.

“Oh, good,” George said, his voice full of good humor again. He wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm and made his way over to the couch. “Now Mitchell can get _his_ arse kicked, and _I_ can watch.”

“Oh, you never know, George,” Mitchell said cheerfully, shrugging out of his jacket. “You might get to see me kick Loki’s arse.”

“You never know,” Loki agreed.

***

By the end of his shift on Monday afternoon, Mitchell was exhausted, physically and emotionally. The hours on his feet had taxed his body more than he expected; but more than that, Mitchell was exhausted from fielding questions and deflecting rumors all day. It touched him to know that so many of his coworkers had been concerned about him, but keeping up his good humor—unfeigned as it was—and downplaying the seriousness of his injuries took a toll on his energy. When he and George got in the lift to return their supplies to the storeroom before heading home for the evening, Mitchell leaned gratefully against the wall, and was glad his shift tomorrow didn’t start until the afternoon. Still, it felt good to be back at work, and back to something like normalcy—or as close to normal as their household got, anyway.

George was reaching to press the button for the basement level when a voice called from the corridor for them to hold the lift, and instead he held the button to hold the door open as the owner of the voice, a young doctor, jogged into the lift. “Thank you,” she said, a little breathlessly. When she saw at Mitchell, she smiled, her face lighting. “Mitchell!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t realize you were back.”

She was petite and olive-skinned, her dark hair caught up in a loose bun at the nape of her neck. Mitchell forgot some of his fatigue as he smiled back, genuinely pleased to see her. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Just today.”

“To hear what people were saying, I wouldn’t have expected to see you for another month at least. It sounded like you were practically dead when they brought you in.”

“Oh, you know how people talk,” Mitchell shrugged. Really, he could give Loki a run for his money when it came to dissembling. “I suspect it looked a lot worse than it really was.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she told him. “I was really worried.”

“You were?” Suddenly flustered—it must have been because he was so tired—Mitchell flushed and stammered, “I—um—thanks.”

Beside him, George cleared his throat. Grateful for the distraction—though he knew he was going to be teased mercilessly about this later—Mitchell said, “Oh, sorry. Lucy, this is my flatmate, George.”

George, his eyes twinkling with mischief, extended his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Lucy,” he said. He slapped Mitchell’s shoulder and added, “I don’t think Mitchell’s mentioned you,” which made Mitchell flush again and fumble incoherently for some kind of response that wouldn’t make him look like a total arse. (He really was tired. It was the only explanation for his sudden inability to speak.)

Lucy, mercifully, ignored his spluttering as she shook George’s hand, giving Mitchell a moment to recover before she asked, “And how was your first day back?”

“Oh, you know.” Mitchell said, with enough of his composure regained to manage something that resembled nonchalance. “Some days, it’s all about the poo, but today, everyone’s been sick.”

George snorted, covering his mouth to smother his laughter. Mitchell resisted the urge to kick him. Inwardly, he groaned, _Jesus Christ, I’m turning into George._

But Lucy only grinned, her eyes twinkling. “So, just a regular day, then?”

“Thank goodness for that,” Mitchell agreed, relaxing a little. “How are you?”

She grimaced. “I had a rough week, actually. My goldfish died.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Mitchell bowed his head in sympathy. “I would have brought you a card, if I had known.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought,” Lucy replied. The lift stopped. “This is me.” She paused on her way out, holding the door open with one hand. “I seem to recall I owe you a coffee,” she said. “Are you in tomorrow?”

Mitchell flushed again. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d like that. I’m in at 1.”

“Then I’ll come find you,” she said, and walked briskly away down the corridor.

George barely waited until the lift had closed again to remind Mitchell of his presence. “Weellll,” he drawled. “That sounded promising.”

Mitchell scowled at him. “She’s just a friend, George,” he said. He looked at him sidelong. “It’s actually possible for men and women to be friends with one another. And unlike you, I can actually talk to women without weeping or setting fire to myself.” _Most of the time._

George ignored the jab. “Mm-hmm. A friend who owes you a coffee.”

“I bought her one a couple weeks ago.”

“You never buy me coffee.” George pouted.

Mitchell scowled. “That’s because you don’t like coffee.”

“Of course,” George said. He tilted his head and fixed Mitchell with an impish grin. “She’s very pretty.”

Mitchell leaned on his mop and buried his face in the crook of his arm.

***

“Mitchell,” George announced from the entryway, “has been holding out on us.”

Loki appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, holding a dishtowel in one hand and a plate in the other. He frowned. “I do not think I know that expression.”

“It means he’s been keeping secrets,” Annie said from behind him. 

Loki took in George’s mischievous expression and Mitchell’s long-suffering one, and asked cautiously, “Oh? What about?”

“Pretty doctors chatting him up.” George slipped past him into the kitchen and took two beers out of the fridge, handing one to Mitchell.

“Really?” Annie asked. She looked expectantly at Mitchell.

Mitchell plopped himself down on the bench along the wall, twisted the top off his bottle, and took a long drink.

“Her name is Lucy,” George said, “And he won’t tell me how he met her.” He joined Mitchell at the table.

“Won’t he?” Annie stirred the pot of marinara sauce simmering on the stove. She glanced at Mitchell, her eyes twinkling. “I wonder why not?”

Mitchell let his head fall back against the wall. Knowing he would have to tell them eventually, he relented. “I walked in on her in the toilet, okay?”

“You did _what?_ ” George’s voice climbed an octave. 

Annie began to giggle. “No wonder you didn’t want to tell us,” she said. Even Loki chuckled, though he kept a careful eye on Mitchell, worried by the exhaustion in his tone and his posture.

“It was a unisex, and it was unlocked,” Mitchell said defensively. “I was going in there to clean. She was upset. She’d just moved here and her boyfriend had finished with her. I bought her a coffee, we talked. That’s it.”

George cupped his hand to his mouth and said in a stage whisper to Loki and Annie, “She wants to buy him a coffee in return.”

“We’re _just friends,_ George,” Mitchell said.

Loki, sensing trouble, tried to gesture for George to stop, but he didn’t see. “She wants to be more than friends,” he sang. He turned to Loki and Annie, so he didn’t see Mitchell’s darkening expression as he continued, chortling, “And Mitchell was so flustered that when she asked how his day was, he said, ‘Some days, it’s all about the poo, but today, everyone’s been sick.’ It’s like something _I_ would say.”

Annie burst out laughing. “Oh, Mitchell, you didn’t,” she said. “That _does_ sound like George. You really like her, don’t you?”

Mitchell set his bottle down on the table with a loud _thunk_ , startling them all into silence. He had been bearing the teasing as best he could, knowing that it was meant affectionately—and that he was only getting as good as he gave—but he was tired, and his chest ached, and his patience had reached its end. “As a matter of fact, I do,” he said. “I like her very much. And we all know why I can’t pursue it, so I’d very much appreciate it if you would all stop rubbing it in my face, okay?” He got to his feet. “I’m going upstairs,” he muttered, and left the kitchen.

They were all silent for a moment, listening to him pound up the stairs. 

“Shit,” George said at last. “I didn’t mean—” He broke off. 

“Me neither,”Annie murmured. She looked guiltily at Loki, thinking of their conversation the previous week. He reached over and patted her shoulder.

“I am sure he knows that,” Loki said gently. He turned to George. “Perhaps you should go after him.”

“Yeah,” George agreed, moving to rise. Upstairs, Mitchell’s door slammed, hard enough to rattle the glasses on the shelf over the sink.

“Perhaps you should give him a few minutes,” Loki amended.

***

Mitchell let his door slam and stood for several moments in the center of his room, awash with anger and frustration. His hands clenched. He looked around for something to throw, found nothing he wanted to sacrifice to his anger, and settled for slamming his fists into his thighs, hard. He _did_ like Lucy, and she seemed interested in him, and that was the whole problem, because he knew what would happen if he opened himself up to her. He had to keep his distance, for both their sakes.

His anger ebbed, leaving behind an aching sadness and a renewed sense of exhaustion. He rummaged around in the clutter on top of his bookcase until found the CD he wanted, and then collapsed into the chair beside the window. The music that came over the speakers was soft, melancholy guitar notes with a low cello line, and a sad tenor voice that suited his mood.

He rolled a cigarette, but didn’t light it. (He knew how much his housemates hated it when he smoked in the house.) Instead, he looked out the window at the quiet street below, blue in the twilight, yellow light pooling under the street lamps. The room behind him was reflected in the glass, but not Mitchell; where he should have been, there was just an empty chair that shifted slightly when he moved. He had never told anyone how much he hated looking in mirrors. Photographs and film were easier; Mitchell had grown up before cameras were a commonplace, and it was little hardship to avoid having his picture taken. His circle of friends was small, and those who didn’t know about him accepted the explanation that he didn’t like having his picture taken. 

But mirrors were difficult.

It wasn’t vanity (though there was that). It was only that he wished to be able to look himself in the eye, to _see_ himself. To know that he was really there—to see that the part of himself he worked so hard to preserve, his human self, had not died off long since. Some cultures believed that people’s souls were captured in photographs, as well as their image. If Mitchell’s image couldn’t be captured, he wondered, what did that say about his soul?

He was still curled up in the chair beside his stereo, turning his unlit cigarette over in his fingers, when a soft knock came at the door. It surprised him; his friends usually left him alone when he retreated to his room. “Yeah,” he called, not moving.

He watched in the window as the door opened and George came in, shadowy in the glass. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet.

“Hey, mate,” he said. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

Mitchell shrugged, unwinding himself and turning back to the room. “It’s all right,” he replied, meaning it. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset. I’m just tired.” Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to rub the scar on his chest through his shirt. 

George’s expression turned worried. “Does it still hurt?” he asked.

Mitchell shrugged again. “A little. It’s sore. Like a bruise.”

George came into the room and sat on the edge of Mitchell’s bed. “I’m sorry,” he said again.

Mitchell waved a hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it,” he told him. He smiled, pushing away his thoughts for another day. “I can handle a little teasing. Besides, I really deserve it. I can’t believe I said that to her. ‘Some days, it’s all about the poo.’”

George chuckled. “Well, you’re not wrong. Some days, it really _is_ all about the poo” he said, making Mitchell laugh in earnest. “But that was pretty spectacular.” He was silent for a moment, then said, plucking at the bedspread. “Do you really think…? I mean, maybe you could—”

Mitchell didn’t let him finish. “I can’t,” he said. “It’s too risky.” 

George pressed his lips together. He looked like wanted to argue, but he kept his silence. Instead, he cocked his head to one side, listening to the music coming over Mitchell’s stereo.

_The village larks cannot be heard_  
because all the crows got panderers.  
I can’t escape these velvet drapes  
Don’t want my rings to fall off my fingers  
Fuggi regal fantasima 

“ _Fuggi regal fantasima_?” George repeated the last line of the verse, and then translated, “Begone, royal phantasm?”

Mitchell nodded. “It’s from _Macbeth_. Verdi’s opera.” In the original aria, it was sung in tones of desperate command, as Macbeth attempted to banish Banquo’s ghost. Here, it became a plaintive refrain, without much hope that the phantasm would obey. The singer had said that for him, the ghost was AIDS, and addiction; close enough analogues to the specters that haunted Mitchell. He surprised himself by telling George as much.

George looked pained. “Oh, Mitchell. You don’t— That’s not—”

“It is,” Mitchell said. He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I wish…but I’m not like you, George. I don’t get days off. This is who I am. The wolf is always there, beneath the surface, just waiting for me to drop my guard.” He paused. Added softly: “And it’s always hungry.”

“But you have it under control,” George argued.

Mitchell shrugged. “Maybe. But…” He fidgeted with his rings, turning them around on his fingers. “I’ve never been very good at keeping things separate.”

“Things?”

“Sex. Blood. It’s all lust, to me.” He looked down at his hands, turned over the cigarette he was still holding, then set it aside on the windowsill. “I don’t want another Lauren.”

George was silent for a few moments. Eventually he said, “You said, in the past, you were able to—to be with someone without—hurting her.”

“Yeah.” Josie. He still saw her clearly in his memory, her dark eyes and bobbed hair and the fearless way she had looked at him. “I wish I knew why. I wish I knew what was different. It was the first time I really tried to go clean, and I managed it, for a while.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Though I’ve spent more of the time since falling spectacularly off the wagon than I have staying on it.”

George fidgeted. “I’m going to make a suggestion you’re going to laugh at,” he said. “But…do you think the difference could have been that you loved her?”

Mitchell blinked, pulled out of his memories.

“I mean,” George went on after a moment, “the sex wasn’t just sex. It was…”

“‘More poetic’?” Mitchell finished for him, a hint of laughter in his voice as he repeated something George had once said to describe sex with Nina.

George flushed, but pressed on. “If you like. When you and Lauren—I mean, it was just a shag, wasn’t it?”

Mitchell nodded. A bottle of wine and a bag of crisps at her place, after a few weeks of flirting. “Just a shag” that turned out to be anything but.

“So…?” George prompted.

Mitchell shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He dragged a hand through his hair, thinking again of Josie. He _had_ loved her. He still did. “It’s a nice theory, George, but even if it’s true…” He gestured. “How often do you meet someone like that? You’re _lucky_ you found Nina.”

“I know,” George said. “I just think—you’re more in control than you think you are. You don’t need to resign yourself to being alone forever.”

Mitchell opened his mouth to answer, but they were interrupted by Annie’s sudden appearance beside the wardrobe. They both jumped. George uttered a scream, and Mitchell exclaimed, “Jesus, Annie!”

“Sorry!” Annie winced. Her eyes were wide. “Mitchell, there’s someone at the door asking for you. A vampire.”

“A vampire!” George cried.

Mitchell sprang to his feet. “Who?” he demanded but he didn’t wait for a reply before he dashed into the hallway.

Behind him, he heard Annie’s bewildered voice, and George’s further panicked exclamations, but he didn’t register any of their words. He slowed as he reached the bottom step, and barely noticed his two friends plow into him. He grabbed onto the bannister to keep his balance, and then stood frozen, staring at the familiar figure on the stoop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reimagining several canon scenes and interactions in this chapter, and borrowed several lines from canon in order to do so. Also, Mitchell's comment about some days being all about the poo never stops being funny to me. It's true even if you're not a cleaner.
> 
> The song Mitchell is listening to is "Barcelona," by Rufus Wainwright.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really didn't mean to let a whole month go by without an update! Things got busy right around the same time I fell into the black pit of seasonal depression known as the month of February, so I haven't been getting a whole lot of writing in. But it seems spring is finally upon us, and this chapter got written! Thank you for your patience. :)
> 
> I've taken a cue from Coneycat in "Lonely Way Back Home" on who's currently in charge of the Bristol vampires. That possibility had been in the back of my mind, and for the small part it plays, makes sense here, too.

When the knock came at the door, Annie let out a groan. “Please let that be a neighbor coming to borrow a cup of sugar.”

“Do people really do that?” Loki wondered aloud. He had heard the expression before, but had yet to experience such a thing.

“You know, I really don’t know,” Annie replied. “You’d think you’d just run up to the store. I mean, if it was so late that the store was closed, you probably wouldn’t be bothering your neighbor—”

She broke off as another knock sounded, more urgent this time. She exchanged a glance with Loki.

“It would be a welcome change of pace,” Loki said. He placed the piece of chicken he had just coated with breadcrumbs on the plate with the others he had prepared and turned on the faucet with his elbows so he could wash his hands. “Though, given our recent track record…”

“Not very likely,” Annie agreed with a grimace. She followed him to the door.

The young man who stood on the stoop was unfamiliar to Loki; he wore a dark knit cap and hugged his coat about himself as if the evening were much colder than it was. He looked up at them with dark eyes bruised purple with fatigue. “Is Mitchell in?” he asked.

Beside him, Loki heard a faint rustle in the air and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Annie vanish. The man on the doorstep didn’t even flinch. Loki reached out with a tendril of magic, verifying what he guessed Annie had seen right away: the man was a vampire.

“I think he will be down in a moment,” Loki told him. The man nodded, hugged his coat tighter around himself and hunched his shoulders. Loki felt a pang; he looked miserable, but even with his protections on the house, Loki was wary. “You will forgive me if I do not invite you in,” he said after a moment, apologetic. “We have had some…difficulties, recently, and I do not know you. I would prefer to wait for Mitchell.”

“Of course.”

Mitchell came pounding down the stairs a moment later. He halted abruptly on the bottom step. Annie and George plowed into him from behind. Mitchell barely seemed to notice. He stared at their visitor, looking equally stunned and—joyful, Loki realized after a moment, looking at his friend’s wide, shining eyes.

Finally, Mitchell choked out, “Carl.”

The man—Carl—replied with a tense smile. “Mitchell.”

“Carl! Jesus.” Mitchell let out a laugh. “It’s been—ages.” He bounded across the entryway and pulled him into an embrace.

Carl stood stiffly in his arms. “I didn’t know where else to go. I know we haven’t—” He broke off, his voice choked.

Mitchell pulled back and held him at arms’ length, taking in his hunched posture and hollow eyes. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”

Carl looked away, his jaw clenching. He blinked several times. “Dan,” he whispered.

“Oh, no. Carl, I’m so sorry. Come inside.” He wrapped an arm around Carl’s shoulders and ushered him into the lounge. “What happened? How?” 

Carl let Mitchell guide him to the sofa. His mouth worked a few times before he managed, “Me. It was me. I lost control, I—”

Mitchell looked stricken. He rubbed a hand across Carl’s shoulders and looked up at his housemates, still standing in the entryway. He tilted his head toward the kitchen, asking silently for the privacy of the lounge. When they had gone, and he could hear the noises of cooking and soft conversation in the kitchen, Mitchell asked again, “What happened?” 

Carl shook his head. “I don’t know.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’d been dreaming, recently. About blood. That hadn’t happened, not for a long time, but…” He trailed off. “I was safe, Mitchell,” he continued after a moment. “I’ve been clean for twenty-five years. I was _safe_ ,” he repeated. “And last night, I woke up in the middle of the night from one of those dreams, and it just—took me over. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Mitchell closed his eyes in anguish, for his friend, and for himself. If _Carl_ couldn’t stay clean…

“It was so strange,” Carl went on, his voice turning faraway, dreamlike. “It was like I wasn’t even in my body. I was watching myself, and I couldn’t stop. And you know, when I did it, he didn’t even look frightened, or surprised? He just looked…disappointed.” He shook his head, looked at Mitchell again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Of course you can come here,” Mitchell assured him. He rubbed Carl’s back again. “Always. You can always call on me. You know that.”

Carl closed his eyes. Mitchell felt him tremble under his hand. “Thank you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “You think you’re free of it, but it’s like a—a bill. It comes due eventually. We’re none of us safe.”

“Don’t say that,” Mitchell said. “It was—” He broke off. What could he say? _It was an accident_? It didn’t matter that Carl hadn’t meant it; Dan was still dead, and by Carl’s hand. Carl, the one person Mitchell had thought stood a chance against the bloodlust, had lost control. 

“I shouldn’t have run,” Carl said, his voice turning faraway again. “I called in an anonymous tip.” He glanced at Mitchell, away agin. “I couldn’t just leave him there.”

“Of course not.”

“I should go back. Turn myself in.”

Mitchell’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “You can’t do that, Carl. You know you can’t.”

“Why not? I’m a murderer.”

“You _can’t_ ,” Mitchell repeated. “You know what would happen. We’d all be exposed. Come on, Carl; the human world can’t handle knowing about us. It’d be mayhem, mass murder. There’d be witch hunts.”

“It’s what we deserve.”

“Maybe,” Mitchell agreed. “But we both know it’s innocent people who will be the victims.”

The anguish didn’t leave Carl’s face, but after a moment he nodded. Mitchell sighed. “We’ll figure something out,” he said. “I’ll make some calls. We don’t even know if it’s being investigated as a murder. The infrastructure’s not what it used to be, but it’s possible our guys may have gotten there first.” _Our guys._ That was what it all came down to, in the end; vampires still needed each other, whether they were clean or not. They all had an interest in keeping their existence a secret. And Ivan, who had reluctantly taken over leadership of the Bristol vampires after Herrick’s death, didn’t share Herrick’s vision of a brave new world of vampires living publicly; he would help. “If you need to get out of town, I still know some people who can fake up papers,” he went on. “You can stay here for a few days.”

“Yeah.” Carl’s voice was flat.

“It’ll be all right.”

Carl looked at him and smiled sadly. “No, it won’t,” he said. “But thank you for saying it.”

Mitchell rubbed his hand back and forth across Carl’s shoulders again, trying, impossibly, to comfort him. Carl leaned into the contact and closed his eyes, though the tension didn’t leave his body. Mitchell cast around for something to say, something to offer, and finally came up with, “Are you hungry at all? I think Annie and Loki are making chicken parmesan for tea.”

Carl shook his head. “Maybe later.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Right now I think…I’d like to try to rest.”

“Okay.” Mitchell stood up. Carl moved as if to lie down on the sofa, but Mitchell caught his hand before he could. “Come on,” he said, tugging him to his feet. “You can use my room. It’ll be quieter upstairs.”

“I don’t want to put you out.”

“You won’t,” Mitchell said cheerfully. “You can sleep down here tonight.”

He was relieved to hear Carl muster a dry chuckle at that.

***

When he had got Carl settled in his room, Mitchell joined the others in the kitchen. Loki, George, and Annie were sitting quietly around the table. The supper things were wrapped up and put away for the moment; no one was particularly hungry anymore. Mitchell sank into the remaining empty chair.

“You heard?” he asked. The question was mostly directed at Loki, whose hearing was sharp enough to have picked up their conversation from the kitchen, but all three of them nodded.

“Enough,” Annie said. “Are you all right?”

Mitchell shrugged. He rubbed at the scar on his chest. “It doesn’t seem possible,” he said. “Carl _adored_ Dan. They were lovers for more than ten years, and Carl’s been clean for twice as long. I can’t believe he could just lose control like that.” He fell silent for a moment, and then went on, in a small voice, speaking to the table, “If he can’t stay clean, how can I possibly…?”

Annie reached for his hand. “Mitchell,” she began.

“I mean it,” he said, meeting her eyes. He looked at George and Loki in turn. “As far as I know, Carl’s _never_ fallen off the wagon. And now he’s killed the one person I thought—and he thought—he could never lay a hand on.”

“You’re not him,” Annie said.

“No,” he agreed. “He’s better than me.”

There was nothing, it seemed, to say to that. Mitchell rested his elbows on the table and cradled his forehead in his hands. Annie patted his back, her hand a comforting spot of coolness through his shirt.

Loki broke the silence after a few moments, speaking slowly, as though he was trying to puzzle out a particularly difficult problem. “Something is…not right,” he said.

“Oh, d’you think?” Mitchell said, lifting his head to fix Loki with a withering glare. “Thank you for that stunning observation.”

“Mitchell,” Annie said reproachfully. To Loki, she said, “What are you thinking?”

“I do not think this is what it appears to be,” Loki said, raising a placating hand in Mitchell’s direction. “There is something wrong with the way Carl described…what happened. He said he felt as if he wasn’t in his body, as if he were watching himself.” He turned to Mitchell. “Do you remember how you felt, when Mordred caused you to lose control?” he asked.

Mitchell blinked, taken aback by the question. He thought for a moment, and then said, slowly, “Like I…like I was watching myself from the outside. Like I wasn’t in control of my own body.”

Loki nodded. “That is not what it feels like to lose control of yourself, not really,” he said. “At least in my experience. When I…did what I did…” He shrugged, spread his hands. “I was out of control, but in a way, I have never been _more_ in control of myself, or at least more… _in_ myself, if that makes any sense.”

George and Annie both looked puzzled, but Mitchell nodded, understanding. “You’re never more in your body, then when you give in to the bloodlust. It traps you, controls you, but it’s—it’s profoundly physical.” He looked at Loki, his brow furrowed. “It’s the opposite of what Carl was describing.”

“I realize individual experiences may be different, but…”

“You think he was being controlled,” George finished for him.

“I think it is a very strong possibility,” Loki said. 

The four of them shared a look. “Herrick,” they all said together.

“Mind control is a power some of the Old Ones are said to have, correct?” Loki asked Mitchell. Mitchell nodded, looking sick.

“But why?” Annie asked. “Why would Herrick—”

“Because of me,” Mitchell said, his voice strained. “To punish Carl for taking me away from him.”

“What do you mean?” George asked.

Mitchell closed his eyes, swallowed hard. “Carl was the first vampire I met who’d even thought about getting clean,” he said after a moment. He looked around at his three friends. “You have to understand, to most vampires, drinking blood isn’t about pleasure, or even need, it’s a _right_. They don’t see it as an addiction. It’s not like there’s an AA meeting for vampires. Herrick used to say it was the natural order of things. He said we were the next step in evolution, that it was…good.”

George snorted in derision. Mitchell grimaced. “Say what you will, he got a lot of vampires to listen to him. When I met Carl, I’d been having…doubts…for a long time. I’d even tried to go clean once or twice, but I’d always go crawling back to Herrick. He knew how to appeal to my basest desires. He could make me forget, at least for a little while, and…I took pleasure in the things we did,” he admitted. “He had me convinced that it was my nature. I believed I didn’t have a choice. The part of me that wanted to stop, it didn’t feel… _real_. I couldn’t talk about it with anyone. It was just this shadow, a ghost of my human self. A self I thought was dead.”

Annie smiled. “Turns out ghosts are a little tougher than we were all led to believe.”

Mitchell gave a half-smile in agreement. “Carl was the first person I met—the first vampire—who understood what I was going through. _I_ didn’t even completely understand it. He was the first person I could talk to about any of it.”

“And he helped you get clean,” George said.

“Eventually. He hadn’t gone clean yet when we met, either. We tried…we tried to help each other, but…” Mitchell trailed off, lost for a moment in memory. He gave himself a shake. “Anyway. Eventually, yes, Carl helped me get clean, for all the good it did. I’ve fallen off the wagon often enough since.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and looked around at his friends. “He’s always been there for me. I understand if you don’t—but I have to do this for him. Regardless of what happened, I have to help him get clear of this.”

Annie and George both looked troubled, but Loki nodded. “Of course,” he agreed. To Annie and George he added, “Mitchell is right; your human justice system is not equipped to handle…” He gestured. “Any of this.” He hesitated, then added softly, “And I think Carl is punishing himself more soundly than any prison sentence could.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Is there any way you can tell for certain if Herrick was controlling him?” Mitchell asked.

“I believe so.” Loki rose. “Shall we go see him?”

***

Loki hung back in the doorway while Mitchell knocked softly on his half-opened door and then took a tentative step into his darkened room. “Carl? Are you awake?”

“Yeah.” He lay curled on his side on Mitchell’s bed, facing the wall; he hadn’t even taken his coat off. Mitchell switched the lamp on, sat down on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on Carl’s shoulder. Carl relaxed visibly at his touch. “I’m afraid to sleep,” he said.

Mitchell looked pained. He glanced around at Loki and gestured for him to come into the room. At the same time, he patted Carl’s shoulder. “Come on. Sit up. There’s some things we need to talk to you about. You met my flatmate, Loki?”

Carl pushed himself up to a seated position, his back against the wall, knees pulled into his chest. He nodded. 

“I am sorry about earlier,” Loki said. He pulled the chair out of the corner and sat. “As I said, we have been having some difficulties.” Mitchell quickly explained what had happened over the past week. Carl, if it was possible, grew even paler as he listened.

“Herrick is alive?” he repeated, when Mitchell had finished.

Loki nodded. “And I believe that mind control is among the powers he has acquired. Based on what you told Mitchell about…what happened…I believe you may not have been in control of yourself.”

Carl was silent for a moment, absorbing this. “You think it was Herrick?” he asked finally. “You think he…got into my head somehow?”

“Yes.”

“Is there a way to tell for certain?”

“With your permission, I can look inside your mind,” Loki said. “Such things leave traces.” He hesitated. “I realize it will be small consolation,” he began.

Carl made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “No. It would be a very great consolation to me, if you can tell me I did not do this thing.”

Mitchell stood, letting Loki take his place on the edge of the bed. “What do I have to do?” Carl asked.

“Nothing,” Loki replied, in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. “Just relax for a moment.” He reached out and placed a hand on Carl’s forehead. Physical contact wasn’t strictly necessary, but it helped. He closed his eyes and concentrated.

He touched just the edges of Carl’s consciousness at first, brushing against it with his own. He was, not unexpectedly, roiling with emotion: anger, grief, confusion, guilt. Loki ached for him, and felt his own emotions heighten in response, anger and protectiveness flaring up in him. He had to take a moment to compose himself before he could go further. When he was sure he was calm, he pushed a little deeper into Carl’s mind. Behind the tumult of emotion lay confused memory. Some of it was old—in human terms, at least: memories of meeting Dan, of falling in love; memories of Mitchell, and somewhat more complicated feelings attached to him. Loki tactfully left these alone, and sifted through memories of the last several weeks until he found, tucked away in a corner of his mind, nightmare images of drinking blood and sensations of overwhelming thirst and need. These had a distinctly different feel to them than Carl’s own thoughts; had he been investigating an ordinary crime scene, Loki would have said that the criminal had left his fingerprints everywhere. It had been done roughly, with little skill or consideration for the mind he was invading—but then, Loki supposed Herrick had little cause to want to tread gently with anyone. He had forced himself into Carl’s mind, caused him to do this terrible thing, and left his stench everywhere. Loki clamped down on another burst of anger at the violation.

He withdrew his consciousness and sat back, blinking several times to reorient himself in his body. At Carl’s questioning look, he nodded. “It was Herrick,” he confirmed.

Carl sagged. He closed his eyes, let his head fall forward to his knees.

“I am sorry,” Loki said.

“No.” Carl shook his head, his voice muffled. “I—Thank you,” he whispered.

“Of course,” Loki said, standing. “I am sorry I cannot do more.”

“It’s enough to know—” Carl broke off. His shoulders trembled.

Mitchell glanced at Loki with a grateful expression as he sat back down on the edge of the bed. _Thank you,_ he mouthed, before he turned back to his friend, catching him up in his arms. Carl fell against him, shuddering. A muffled sob ripped out of him. Mitchell rocked him back and forth, making soft, soothing noises.

Loki closed the door quietly behind him.

***

When the storm of grief passed, and Carl lay calm against Mitchell, he asked, “Do you think he knows?”

“Dan?” Mitchell shifted so Carl lay more comfortably in his lap, his head resting on Mitchell’s knee.

Carl nodded.

“I don’t know.” Mitchell smoothed his hair. After another moment he asked, “Do you think he’s still here?”

Shrug. “I imagine I’d know if he was. He isn’t—wasn’t—one to avoid a confrontation.”

Mitchell chuckled. “No,” he agreed, “he was not.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” Carl gazed up at the ceiling. “I knew this day would come eventually, but I always thought we’d have more time.”

“I know.”

Carl’s eyes traveled back to Mitchell’s face. “We always lose them in the end, one way or another.”

Mitchell felt his hand tighten convulsively on Carl’s arm. He swallowed hard and forced himself to relax. “I know,” he said again.

“Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“It is.” Mitchell surprised himself with the certainty of his reply. “Loving a human, having human friends, it’s like—” He cast about for something to compare it to.

“Finding yourself,” Carl finished for him. “Your human self.”

“Yeah. It’s worth it, to find that again, even for a little while.” _For the hope of not losing it again._

“Yeah,” Carl said. “Maybe.” He fell silent, and neither of them said anything for a time. Carl’s eyes began to close, his body growing heavy against Mitchell as he relaxed. Before he could fall asleep, Mitchell gently disentangled himself and coaxed Carl to sit up on his own. “Come on,” he said gently. “Take your coat off and stay awhile.” He found a set of clean pajamas in his wardrobe and set them down beside him, then went back and helped Carl; who, Mitchell realized, was too exhausted, or too numb, to manage on his own. He fumbled at the buttons of his coat until Mitchell pushed his hands aside and did it for him. It felt strange to Mitchell, to be the onetaking care of him; usually, with the two of them, it was the other way around. 

He tossed Carl’s coat over the chair and helped him change into the pajamas, and got him to lie down.

“I can take the couch,” Carl said as Mitchell pulled the duvet over him.

“It’s fine,” Mitchell replied. He sat down beside him. “Do you think you can sleep?”

Carl shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“If you want, Loki can do a spell that can help,” Mitchell said. “I can go get him.”

But Carl shook his head emphatically, suddenly alert again. “I’ve had enough of other people in my head for the time being,” he said.

“All right.” Mitchell patted his shoulder and began to stand, but Carl tensed and Mitchell sank back down. 

“Will you stay?” he asked. 

“Of course.”

“Will you—?” The words choked off, but Mitchell understood.

“Yeah,” he said, kicking his shoes off. He patted Carl’s back. “Go on, shove over.” He lay down beside him on top of the blankets, his chest to Carl’s back, and wrapped his arm around him. Carl let out a shaky breath and relaxed against him. Mitchell closed his eyes. The contact brought with it a complicated rush of memory and emotion better off left unexplored, but for a few moments in overwhelmed him.

“I’m sorry,” Carl murmured after a few minutes had passed.

“About what?”

He felt Carl shrug against him. “We both know we didn’t part on the best of terms.” He paused. “I don’t like to just barge in on you with a crisis.”

Mitchell let out a dry chuckle. “Like I never did to you?”

“I just—”

“Shh. It doesn’t matter.”

Carl fell silent. They lay like that for some time, Carl’s body slowly relaxing against him. Mitchell thought he had fallen asleep when he said, very softly, “I love you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell rested his chin on Carl’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of him.

He wished love were enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several of Carl's lines in his initial conversation with Mitchell are lifted directly from canon, and belong, as usual, to the BH writers.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Looks like once a month may be more the norm for updates going forward. Give or take, but rest assured I'm continuing to work on this. :) Thanks for sticking with me, reading and commenting!

Mitchell huddled in his coat on a bench in the hospital courtyard and lit a cigarette, wishing he had thought to get a cup of coffee before he came outside for his break, both for the warmth and the caffeine. Despite his exhaustion he had slept fitfully the night before, pulled into wakefulness every time Carl stirred beside him. Each time, sleep was slow returning. He spent most of the night lying awake in the dark, wondering and worrying. What was Herrick up to? Could he get close enough to do to Mitchell what he had done to Carl? He couldn’t hurt Annie, and Mitchell knew Loki could take care of himself, but he worried about George, and Nina, and, well, any other humans who might be in his close proximity should he lose control of himself. 

He had given up trying to sleep at dawn, and slipped out of the house to see what Ivan knew about Carl’s situation and what he could do for him, and what he had found was not good. “Their guys” had not gotten to Dan’s body first; his death was being investigated as a murder, and Carl was wanted as a “person of interest,” which was really shorthand for, “we’re pretty sure he did it, but we don’t have enough to go on to name him a suspect yet.” At least—thank goodness for small mercies—Mitchell wasn’t known as one of Carl’s friends, so he was, at least for the moment, safe on Windsor Terrace. Before Mitchell left, Ivan had promised to use his considerably greater resources to find out what else he could, and to secure a way for Carl to get out of Bristol. It was Mitchell’s job to think of a way to get the police off Carl’s trail. 

Carl wasn’t going to like what he had come up with—neither, for that matter, would Loki, George, and Annie—but he thought it was for the best. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his hand around the two items he had nicked earlier. He didn’t much like his plan either, but he could think of no better option.

Mitchell passed a hand over his eyes and took a drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in a long sigh. He really was tired, and his prospects for a full night’s sleep didn’t look very good for tonight, either.

“You look awful,” a voice said above him. Mitchell looked up, surprised. As if in answer to his prayers, Lucy stood in front of him holding two cardboard coffee cups. She offered one to him. “I could almost forgive you for standing me up.”

Mitchell had to think hard for a moment before he remembered. “Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“You could have just told me you’d rather brood out here by yourself,” Lucy replied, a note of teasing in her voice. She joined him on the bench and extracted a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. 

“I—” Mitchell began, and then broke off. He watched her tap a cigarette out of the packet and light it. She was teasing him, but she was also giving him an out; one he would be wise to take, and end whatever might be happening between them before it started. Before it put her in danger.

Before _he_ put her in danger.

He didn’t. “It’s not—I just forgot, is all,” he said, inwardly kicking himself. He pushed his hair back, fingers tangling in unwashed curls. He grimaced. “I had sort of a rough night last night.”

Lucy looked at him sidelong. Her expression turned professional, assessing him coolly as she looked him up and down, and then concerned. “Are you sure you’re well enough to be back at work?” she asked. “Maybe you should take a few more days off. Healing takes a lot out of you, you know.”

His hand drifted toward his chest. He covered the motion by taking another drag on his cigarette. “It’s not that,” he said, though part of it was. And then, against his better judgment, told her something that resembled the truth. (Better to keep the details distinct from a certain murder victim in the morgue.) “My friend’s brother died. He came up from London last night. He’s staying with me for a couple days.”

“Oh.” Lucy made a sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry.”

Mitchell shrugged.

“Were you close?”

“With his brother?” Mitchell scoffed. “No. He hated me, actually.” He took a sip of his coffee. The warmth spread through him, loosening the tightness in his chest that came with the memory of Dan’s pitying and disdainful gaze, as if he always saw Mitchell tied to a chair in their Paris flat, sweating and trembling from withdrawal, alternately weeping and lashing out. He had never seen Carl like that, never known his resolve to falter. “He thought I was a bad influence.”

Lucy raised an eyebrow, looking as though she wanted to tease him. “Ah. Were you?”

“Probably,” Mitchell said, unable to match the lightness in her tone. “But he—my friend—was a very _good_ influence on me, so…” He trailed off, thinking of Carl as he had been when he left for the day, mechanically eating cereal in the kitchen while Annie did her best to engage him. He sighed. “I would have liked to—to apologize, for the way I was when we were younger. We hadn’t spoken in a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said again.

“Thanks.”

They lapsed into silence. Lucy shifted beside him, studied him for a moment and then said, frowning, “I’m not sure if I should try to comfort you or distract you.”

Mitchell shook his head a little, trying to dispel his worries. “A distraction would be most welcome,” he replied.

“Hmm.” Lucy thought a moment, cocking her head to one side, then grinned. “I have just the thing.” She leaned in and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Do you believe in vampires?”

Mitchell choked on his coffee. “Vampires?” he repeated.

She nodded. “Because a body came into the morgue yesterday. A DOA. And you’ll never guess how he died.”

“Um?” was all he could manage.

“Puncture wounds in the neck, totally drained of blood.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s…strange.”

“Isn’t it, though?” Lucy sipped her coffee. “I mean, how is that even possible? The police said there was hardly any blood at the scene, but the wounds had punctured the carotid artery. Everything should have been drenched in the stuff.”

“You have a very strange way of trying to distract a person from thinking about death,” Mitchell said, wincing. He had, at least, recovered enough to inject a measure of sarcasm into his tone. 

Lucy grinned. “And yet I have this sneaking suspicion your sensibilities are as morbid as mine. What do you think?”

“I think there has to be a more ordinary explanation.”

“Such as?”

He shrugged, thinking fast. “I don’t know, some kind of fetish thing that got out of control?”

“Vampire fetish that got out of control,” Lucy repeated, her turn to be sarcastic. “That’s ordinary?”

“More plausible than vampires. There are those people who like to be strangled during sex,” he pointed out. “People are into some weird shit.”

“I suppose…”

Mitchell grinned and tossed back the last of his coffee. “Sorry to disappoint you.” His tone was easy, but inwardly he was coiled tight. He stood up, took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out with his shoe.

“Oh, well,” Lucy sighed. She glanced up at him, a grin crinkling the corners of her eyes. “It would be a lot more exciting if it was a vampire, don’t you think?”

Mitchell forced a laugh. “I’m not sure ‘exciting’ is the word I’d choose. I should get back.” 

“You go on.” Lucy held up her coffee and half-smoked cigarette. “I’m going to finish these.”

He was halfway across the courtyard, breathing a sigh of relief that he had managed not to give anything away, when Lucy called after him, “How about buying me dinner to make up for standing me up today?”

Mitchell froze. _No,_ he thought. _No. I have to stop this. It’s too dangerous. For both of us._

He turned, an excuse on his lips. “Sure!” he called back.“How about Thursday?”

***

Carl wasn’t anywhere in the house when Mitchell came home. Of course not. Mitchell stood for a moment in his bedroom, feeling overwhelmed and miserable, and then turned and made his way back down the kitchen.

“Do you know where Carl is?”

Loki didn’t look up from what he was doing—which appeared to be staring at the blank surface of the kitchen table, occasionally moving his hands around as though he were rearranging things, and muttering to himself. Mitchell knew him well enough to assume he was working some kind of magic, and also that it might be unwise to interrupt (a certain incident involving a sinkful of soapy water, a sudden downpour in the kitchen, and a duck sprang to mind), but he was also impatient and worried. He wouldn’t put it past Carl to go off and do something stupid, especially in the state he was in. He pushed the rest of the way through the beaded curtain and laid a hand on Loki’s shoulder, making him start.

“Sorry,” Mitchell said.

“It is all right.” Loki waved a hand in dismissal, shaking his head to clear it. Mitchell repeated his question, and Loki frowned. “I thought he was in your room. That’s what Annie said, when I came home.”

Mitchell glanced around. “Where is she?”

“With Sykes,” Loki replied. “And Carl is…”

“Not in my room,” Mitchell confirmed. He sighed and dropped into one of the other chairs, cradling his head in his hands. When had things gotten so complicated? He seemed to remember life being simple, once. Maybe. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. He scrubbed his hands over his face and rested his chin on his fist. “What were you doing, anyway?”

“Ah.” Loki couldn’t suppress his grin. . “I am using a Pensieve.”

“A…?” Mitchell raised an eyebrow

“You know, the vessel where Professor Dumbledore places some of his memories so that he can sort through them more easily?”

“Yes, yes, I know what a Pensieve is,” Mitchell replied. “And you made the kitchen table into one?”

Loki shrugged. “I was simply using the concept to help me sort out the information I gathered from Reverend Kemp’s mind on Sunday. It was very confusing. By conjuring images of the thoughts I got from him, I can examine them more closely and perhaps find some useful details. I was using the table as a surface to organize the images. It got too confusing trying to do it in the air.”

“Did you find anything?”

Another shrug. “A few things I would like to consult with Catherine about,” he said. “There are several symbols that keep turning up that I do not recognize.”

Mitchell nodded. Another maddeningly small step toward figuring out what was going on with Kemp. And it didn’t bring him any closer to finding Carl. He hid his face in his hands again, thinking. Where would Carl go? _Where would I go?_

Well. He knew where he would _want_ to go, even if—he hoped—he wouldn’t be stupid enough to actually go there. Carl, however… Carl was definitely that stupid. He stood up abruptly. 

“I think I know where he went,” he said. Loki followed him into the entryway, watching as he shrugged into his jacket and cast about for his keys before he found them in his pocket.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asked.

Mitchell paused with his hand on the latch, surprised and grateful. “Yeah,” he said, feeling some of the tension leave him. “Actually—yeah. Thanks.”

Mitchell drove with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel, speeding through Bristol to Carl and Dan’s flat. They had been living in Bristol for several years, but the last time Mitchell had seen Carl was in Paris, years before that, when he had shown up after a bender and ruined Carl and Dan’s Christmas. Carl had taken care of him, gotten him through the worst of the withdrawal, and then Dan had told him to stay away from them—that if he really loved Carl, he would leave him alone. And Mitchell had. Even when they moved to Bristol, he stayed away, though he’d taken it upon himself to learn their address—so he could avoid them, he told himself, but really it was the comfort of knowing Carl was nearby, if out of reach. He was glad, now, that he knew where the flat was.

“I think I can sense—he is somewhere nearby,” Loki said, craning to look around as they drove up Carl’s street. Mitchell looked around as well. The street was relatively quiet, just a few evening walkers and joggers about, but he thought he recognized a few unmarked police cars among the vehicles parked along the street. Some of those pedestrians were no doubt police as well. “There.” Loki pointed.

Carl was standing in the shadow of a garden wall across the street from his flat, his cap pulled low over his eyes and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. As they pulled closer, he stepped out onto the corner, looking around, and began to cross the street.

Mitchell slammed on the brakes, threw the Volvo into park, and hurled himself out of the car. He grabbed hold of the front of Carl’s coat and dragged him back into the shadow of the wall, shoving him hard against it.

“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed. “You know they’ll be watching your place.” He gave Carl a shake. “What were you thinking?”

Carl sagged against the wall, letting Mitchell hold him up against it. His eyes were dull, a little dazed, as if he were floating on the surface of despair. His gaze skittered over Mitchell’s face and then he let his head fall back against the stones and turned to look across the street at his windows.

“I didn’t take anything with me when I left,” he said at last. “I just wanted to get a photograph, or…” he trailed off. “Something of his,” he finished.

Mitchell let go of him and stepped back, bending over to rest his hands on his knees. He tried to still his rapid breathing. “You can’t,” he said at last. “The police are looking for you. You can’t go back to the flat. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, he can,” Loki said from behind him. They both looked around. Loki waved his hand and said, “These are not the droids you are looking for.”

Mitchell barked a surprised laugh. “Right,” he said. “I forgot.” To Carl, he said, “He can make us sort of invisible.”

“Unnoticeable,” Loki corrected.

Carl blinked. “With… _Star Wars_?”

“Well.” Loki shrugged. “Magic helps, too.”

***

Loki’s glamour got them easily past the police, to both Carl’s relief and disappointment. There was still a part of him that wanted to be caught, and punished, and it grew as they climbed the stairs in silence, the weight of what he had done—wittingly or not—pressing down on him.

In the hall outside the flat, Carl paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Can you wait out here?” he asked. Mitchell and Loki both nodded, and Carl had to look away from their expressions of sympathy—however well-meant, it only heightened his shame. Mitchell placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m right here,” he said. “Just call if you want me to come in, okay?”

Carl nodded, and slipped silently inside.

The flat was as he had left it: pleasantly cluttered, warm, humming with the traces of habitation. The dirty dishes from supper were still in the sink, crusted over with food; Dan’s book still sat on the coffee table, turned upside down to save his place; unread mail strewn across the console table beside the door.

Carl took a step into the room, pulling Dan’s scarf from the back of one of the dining table chairs as he did so. He pressed the charcoal gray cashmere to his face and inhaled the scent of him. Tears pricked his eyes. The flat still felt alive with Dan’s presence; it seemed as though he would walk out of the bedroom in another moment, rubbing his eyes sleepily after a nap, to kiss him and welcome him home.

Carl swallowed convulsively. He settled the scarf around his neck, holding the fringed ends in both hands. He crossed to the bedroom.

He made himself look at the bed first, at the rumpled, bloodstained sheets; remembered Dan’s only, tiny gasp of pain, and the look of disappointment that had crossed his features as the light faded from them. He made himself stare hard at it, and then he turned away, went to the dresser, and took the framed photo from the top: Dan standing on a bridge in Venice at sunset, limned in reflected light from the the water below. He tucked it into his pocket, ran his hands over the smooth wood of the dresser. After another moment he dropped to his knees and pulled open one of the drawers. He sat there and looked at the clothes folded neatly in it. Dan’s drawer; Carl’s were always in disarray. He took a blue sweater from the stack, let it unfold and draped it over his arm. He had given it to Dan for Christmas last year, because it picked up the flecks of blue in his eyes. Dan had worn it the day before he died.

Carl straightened and looked around the room again. He licked his lips, wondering, suddenly, if the sense of a presence might be—

It probably wasn’t; probably was just his imagination. “Dan?” he called softly. “Are you still here?”

Nothing. Not surprising. But he went on, “I don’t know if you can hear me, wherever you are. Maybe you know already that it was Herrick, controlling me. Mitchell’s friend said he made me have those dreams, and used them to manipulate me. He thinks—” He broke off, laughed a little. “I know you don’t like Mitchell, but…I need him right now. I don’t have you anymore. Maybe you can understand.”

The empty room didn’t answer. Carl sighed, wiped at his eyes with the back of his wrist, and turned, crossing back into the main room of the flat. He looked around at the remains of their life together. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never wanted you to be hurt, Dan. I’m sorry that—that loving me got you hurt. I should have—I should never have…” His voice caught, broke. He swallowed hard. “I should have sent you away.” He looked around once more, and then hurried to the door.

“I hope you don’t mean that.”

Carl started. He turned a full circle before he caught sight of Dan, leaning against the wall by the bedroom door with his ankles crossed, in green tartan boxers. He quirked an eyebrow at Carl. “If I had known I’d be stuck wearing the clothes I died in for all of eternity, I’d have worn pajamas to bed.”

Carl uttered a surprised laugh. Dan smiled and looked down at himself. “Still,” he went on, a hint of laughter in his voice, “at least I decided to put on pants.”

Carl laughed again, verged into a sob. He blinked, his vision going blurry as tears gathered in his eyes. “You’re still here,” he managed at last.

“For a little longer,” Dan said, his voice gentle. He pushed away from the wall and crossed to where Carl was standing. Dan’s hands were cold and insubstantial on his cheeks. He wiped away his tears with his thumbs. Carl blinked away his tears, trying to take in every precious line of his face, every eyelash, knowing this would be last chance he got. But they welled up ceaselessly; he closed his eyes against them.

“I’m sorry,” Carl said. His voice was thick, barely intelligible.

“I know,” Dan said. He adjusted his scarf around Carl’s neck. “I forgive you.”

“How can you—?” Carl swallowed another sob. “I killed you. Being with me killed you.”

Dan shrugged and smiled sadly. “Even so,” he said. “I love you.” He gave him a little shake. “I don’t regret it. Neither should you.”

Carl bowed his head, tears streaming down his cheeks. His throat closed. He couldn’t make any reply. They stood like that for long moments, Carl’s shoulders shaking silently under Dan’s hands. Finally Dan said softly, “I think it’s time for me to go.”

Carl looked up. The door to the flat had changed. It was larger, blond wood instead of dark, with a large brass latch and old-fashioned hardware. Light seemed to radiate from it, though its edges were sealed tight. Dan touched his cheek again. Carl leaned into the contact. “I love you,” he finally managed to say, in a thin voice.

“I love you, too.” He hesitated, stepping back. “Tell Mitchell…I still don’t like him. But I’m glad he has you.”

Carl nodded, another laugh catching at the lump in his throat. “I’ll tell him.”

Dan took a deep breath. “I’ll see you again,” he promised, and reached for the latch.

***

They drove back to Windsor Terrace in silence. Loki, folded into the backseat, watched the two vampires worriedly. Carl stared straight ahead, his posture tense, wrapping and unwrapping the gray scarf around his hands. He at least seemed a little more present, not quite so numb or dazed as he had been.

Mitchell glanced at Carl sidelong every few seconds, and at Loki in the rearview almost as often. Loki couldn’t read his expression, catching only glimpses of Mitchell’s profile, but he knew him well enough to guess at what this was doing to him, even knowing that Herrick had been behind Dan’s murder. That Carl had had a human lover, and had been able to remain clean, should have given Mitchell some hope that maybe he could to the same, but Herrick’s intervention had ensured that Mitchell would remain firm in his conviction that he was too dangerous, that his lovers were too vulnerable—if not to him, then to those who wanted to hurt him.

The worst part was, Loki wasn’t entirely certain Mitchell was wrong. He wanted, badly, to believe he was; wanted to encourage his interest in the doctor George had teased him about, Lucy; wanted Mitchell to be able to form connections with other people, human or supernatural, and to believe that he wouldn’t hurt them. But there was no denying it: Mitchell _was_ dangerous. It made sense for him to choose to keep his distance.

 _Dangerous like George?_ a little, niggling voice asked in his head. _Or like you, for that matter? Perhaps Nina and Annie would both be better off without you._ Loki scowled and looked out the window. By that logic, they should all barricade themselves in the cellar and save the outside world from their existence. But that was the whole point of the house: to live in the outside world, to choose not to be monstrous. Mitchell made his choice every day. And he had more control than he thought; Loki believed that unequivocally. The important thing, Loki thought, would be to give Lucy the same choice about being with him. He resolved to broach the topic with Mitchell the next time he had him alone.

Mitchell pulled the Volvo into its spot in front of the pink house and turned off the ignition, but didn’t move to get out right away. Instead, he turned to Carl and said, “I saw Ivan this morning.” 

Carl glanced at him, his gaze turning sharp. “And what does Ivan have to say?” he asked. 

Mitchell did his best to ignore the edge in Carl’s voice. “He can get out of the country,” he said. “But…you’re wanted for Dan’s murder. It would be easier if there wasn’t a manhunt going for you.”

Carl frowned, then sighed and looked out the window, the sharpness leaving his expression. “Yes, well, I can think of a lot of things that would be easier than this. What does Ivan suggest?”

In the backseat, Loki shifted uncomfortably and reached for the door handle, thinking that this conversation should be between the two vampires, but Mitchell turned and caught his eye, asking him silently to stay. Loki settled back into his seat, still feeling uncomfortable. 

Mitchell turned back to Carl and dug in his pocket, producing a glass vial and a hypodermic. Carl looked at the two items in Mitchell’s hand and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s morphine,” Mitchell said, in answer to his unspoken question.

Carl blinked, looked from his face back down to the items in his hands. “Ah,” he said at last, as meaning sank in. He took the vial from Mitchell’s hand and held it up to the light, looking at the gray sky through the clear liquid. “So we avert the manhunt by staging my suicide. Shall I go back to the flat and do it there? How maudlin.”

“George or me can get you from the morgue,” Mitchell said quietly, not looking at him. “Ivan can arrange passage on a cargo ship to South America in a few days. And papers. You’ll be out clean.”

Carl didn’t respond. After a moment, he sighed heavily and took the hypo from Mitchell, tucking both items into his coat pocket.

Loki felt ill. “Is this really necessary?” he asked.

Carl turned to look at him. “I’m open to other ideas,” he said.

Loki chewed his lower lip, thinking. It wasn’t a bad plan, tactically, but it felt unnecessarily cruel to him. “Perhaps some new evidence can come to light,” he suggested. “Pointing to the actual culprit.”

“But Herrick’s dead,” Mitchell pointed out. “I mean, officially. And, sorry, Loki, but it’s not like magical consultants are recognized experts to testify in a court of law.”

“That’s…not exactly what I had in mind,” Loki said.

“Then who—? Oh.” Mitchell shifted in his seat so he could see Loki better. “Are you thinking—the priest? Kemp?”

Loki nodded. “He controls Herrick, and the demon—whoever it is—seems to need him. If we can take him out of play—”

“Or distract him,” Mitchell added.

“—or distract him, then at the very least we gain a reprieve. And,” he went on, “I know where Herrick is imprisoned. Without Kemp guarding him—”

Mitchell nodded slowly, a predatory gleam coming into his eye. “We can pay him a visit ourselves,” he concluded. He looked admiringly at Loki. “That’s sort of…”

“Genius,” Carl finished for him. “And I wouldn’t mind accompanying you on this visit.”

Loki grinned back, matching Mitchell for predatory fierceness. “Well,” he said modestly, “I do not watch police procedurals for nothing.”

***

Lucy hummed to herself as she packed up her things for the day. For the first time since she had moved to Bristol, things seemed to be looking up. It had taken time, but the other doctors in the hospital were finally coming to treat her as a colleague and an equal, a practitioner like them to be respected, rather than a research physician descending from her ivory tower, to be regarded with suspicion. She had even begun to regard a few of them as friends. Just this afternoon, a group of doctors and nurses has invited her to join their book group—women only, and with the promise that more attention would be paid to wine and chocolate than whatever book they had chosen that month. Lucy had accepted the invitation gladly.

And there was Mitchell. Mitchell was a surprise. When he had barged in on her in the loo—stupid, to forget to lock the door—Lucy had wanted nothing more than to see the back of him. To be caught crying like a schoolgirl, and by a _cleaner_ , was almost too humiliating. And yet—

Talking to him had been easy. She still wasn’t sure what had made her spill her frustration and grief to him that afternoon, but she was glad she had. His eyes, she thought, and then laughed at the romance novel silliness of it. But it was true, and not just because they were pretty; they were sharp and observant, betraying intelligence that Lucy hadn’t expected to find, and they were haunted, and kind. She was looking forward to learning more about the man who lay behind them, even if he had failed her little test today. She could hardly blame him if he lacked imagination; most people did.

But then, most people hadn’t seen what she had.

She finished sorting the papers on her desk and set them aside in three neat stacks, to return to tomorrow. She was looking over her schedule for the following day when a soft knock sounded on her open door.

“Professor Jaggat?”

She glanced up, turning in her chair. The man who entered her office was tall, his hair a fringe of white around his ears. He had bushy gray eyebrows that overshadowed deep-set eyes, giving him a foreboding look, though they were open wide now, eyebrows arched with his question.

“It’s not ‘professor’ anymore,” she replied, setting her papers aside. “I resigned from my research post. May I help you with something?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” He folded his hands. “My apologies. However, it is your research I was hoping to talk with you about. May I?” Lucy gestured an assent, still puzzled. He stepped toward her, set his briefcase on her desk, and withdrew a sheaf of papers from it. Lucy’s eyes narrowed when she caught sight of the cover sheet. She sprang to her feet, backing away from him.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded. She looked him up and down, searching for some marker of his identity. Another scientist seeking to ridicule—or worse—the hack who had tried to publish that manuscript? He looked too serious to be one of the monster hunters who flocked to her after that debacle; but then, some of those were terrifyingly, insanely, _serious_.

“That isn’t important,” he replied, making her scowl. He raised a placating hand. “I am very interested in your hypothesis on the lycanthropy cases in Scotland,” he said. “It is an interest I share.”

“Why?” Lucy edged backward, her hand twitching toward the button taped to the side of her file cabinet for the silent alarm. All she wanted was to put all of that behind her, to retire that part of her life and live quietly in Bristol, practice medicine and forget her earlier obsessions. And yet here they came, back to haunt her. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“My name is Patrick Kemp.” He took a step toward her, his free hand still raised, palm toward her. “I think you misunderstand my intentions, Professsor—Dr. Jaggat,” he corrected himself.

Her hand hovered over the silent alarm button. “Oh?”

“I know your work has been ridiculed by others in the scientific community,” he said. “I know you have had…threats. I do not wish to do either.” He held up the manuscript. “I’ve seen the things that you speak of. Vampires, werewolves, ghosts—”

Lucy stared at him. “They’re all real,” she finished at last, her voice thin and choked.

He nodded, and set the manuscript down on the desk. “I am here with an offer, Dr. Jaggat,” he said. “I would like to fund your research.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a tiny bit distracted by another fandom, but you can all thank Leverage for giving Loki the idea to plant evidence to get Kemp out of the way. Watching a show about a group of conmen opens all kinds of doors. We'll see if it works.
> 
> Also with additional thanks to Coneycat; our conversation in comments on my last chapter was what sparked the idea to have Dan appear as a ghost. I thought it might be a separate ficlet, but it fit in here. (Read: he turned up and started talking when Carl was collecting things from the flat.)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohai! It's an update! Sorry for leaving it so long. ::sheepish:: Life got busy and I got stuck. I think (fingers crossed) I am unstuck, and things are calming down enough that I'm starting to fit more regular writing time in, which will hopefully mean more frequent updates. 
> 
> A bit of a shorter one this time, as I try to move the plot ahead. Thanks as usual to my lovely readers and commenters and kudosers, for sticking with me!

Lucy sat at her desk for a long time after Mr.— _Reverend_ —Kemp left, her mind reeling.

He wanted to fund her research. She had come to Bristol to put all that behind her, to live quietly, to forget and be forgotten; no more obsessive searching for a cure, no more feverish research fueled by guilt and rage—but now she could no longer silence the internal voice that asked, insistently, _Is that really what you want?_

Why had she brought up the mysterious DOA to Mitchell? Why test him? And why was she disappointed with his reaction? _If I really wanted to put it all behind me, you’d think I’d prefer a boring bloke who doesn’t believe in monsters._

And then Kemp had shown up at her office. He had access to money—unlimited funds, from the sound of it, from a religious group of some sort. He hadn’t been very specific, other than to say that they funded… “ _special_ projects.”

Lucy had recoiled when she saw the clerical collar at his throat after he took off his overcoat, reminded forcibly of the parade of priests and clerics that had come through her family’s home after the attack, chanting and praying and exorcising to no avail. Kemp noticed and raised his hands, palms forward.

“I assure you, I mean you no harm, and I am not here to try to convert you,” he said, his eyes glinting with the hint of a smile. He paused, growing serious again. “You are interested in the scientific aspects of evil. I am interested in its spiritual aspects. We both, I think, seek to save innocents from its possession. Is there any reason we cannot work together?”

Lucy sat back down slowly. She had been sixteen, her sister Laura fourteen, when it happened: A school camping trip to Cornwall; an animal attack in the night that had left three students dead, and Laura horribly scarred; and a month later, at the next full moon, the terrifying transformation.

Their parents had turned to religion to find a cure; Lucy, to science, with no more success than they, though she never gave up searching—until last year. The stir caused by her manuscript had been part of it, of course. To attempt to prove scientifically that there were such things as werewolves! It was beyond ridiculous, and she had expected the response she got, though she had hoped to attract the notice of one or two believers. She wouldn’t have given up, though. She held out hope, even as Laura despaired, convinced she had a demon inside her that could not be exorcised.

Lucy wouldn’t have given up, except that Laura had asked her to stop. Her beautiful baby sister had begged her not to let this consume both of their lives, and then she ran a bath and cut her wrists. Lucy had tried to honor her dying wish.

The hell of it was, Lucy thought she was close to finding a cure. She had an idea, a working hypothesis, after observation of the strangely volatile blood samples she had collected from her sister. Kemp could get her the equipment she needed, provided they could recruit a willing subject. And even that, he had provided for.

On the desk in front of her, Lucy had a stack of files; Kemp had left her with much more than her manuscript. And at the top of the stack was a tabloid clipping about a series of animal attacks in Scotland. Lucy had, of course, known about the attacks, but she hadn’t seen this particular article. It included a grainy photograph of the young man who had survived the attack, and reportedly experienced some sort of fit the following month. He had later disappeared. Lucy sat and stared at the photograph, her mouth dry, her mind racing. She recognized the face.

It was Mitchell’s flatmate.

Lucy traced the fuzzy outline of his face. Did Mitchell know? How could he not know? George may have been able to hide his transformation from his coworkers, from his friends at work, but the person who lived with him? Whatever he did to manage his condition, surely he must have help, someone to lock him up, or pick him up the following morning, someone to help him stay out of trouble. Her conversation with Mitchell about the vampire murder suddenly took on a new light: His choking disbelief when she mentioned vampires could have been fear, his deflection an attempt not to give George away.

She had to talk to him about it, had to let him know that she knew, and that she wanted to help. It made sense that he would try to protect his friend, but she needed him to know that George didn’t need protecting from her. 

She closed the file, locked it in her cabinet, and gathered her things for the night, her jaw set. She hadn’t been able to save Laura, but maybe she could save him. She had to try.

***

“You’re going to do _what_?” George squeaked when Loki explained his plan.

Loki shrugged with exaggerated casualness. “Just…point the police toward another suspect,” he said, with a vague gesture. They were all sitting around the lounge, eating Chinese take-away as the light faded: Loki, Annie, George, Nina, Mitchell, and Carl. (Sykes had returned with Annie, taken one look at their serious faces, and made a hasty retreat, protesting that he didn’t want to be involved in whatever they were planning.)

“Kemp,” Mitchell clarified around a mouthful of lo mein.

George made another squeak of protest. “But—he’s a—a _priest_!”

“An evil priest,” Annie said.

“But how are we going to—?” George broke off, as if just realizing that he was participating in the planning, now, instead of protesting. “I mean—” He glanced at Nina as if wanting to assure her that this wasn’t their ordinary dinnertime conversation. She returned his glance steadily, as unfazed as a person could be in the circumstances.

“Are there any other options?” she asked. 

“Mitchell wanted to stage my suicide and sneak me out of the morgue,” Carl said. He had regained some vitality and was even edging toward cheerfulness as they had begun to plan how they would cast suspicion on Kemp. Mitchell threw him a dirty look. Carl looked innocent, and Loki hid his smirk.

“I’ll…take that as a ‘no,’ then?” Nina asked, grimacing.

“If we can at least get Kemp taken in for questioning, that gets him out of the way, and we can go talk to Herrick,” Mitchell pointed out. 

George threw up his arms. “And that is a good idea _how_?”

“Kemp has him imprisoned,” Loki said. “I believe we will be quite safe to speak to him, and I suspect that Kemp has let slip some useful information to the creature he believes he has bound to his will.”

“Assuming he’ll talk to us.”

Loki examined his fingernails. “He will,” he said without inflection.

“And then, I’m going to kill him.” Carl’s voice was equally bland. Mitchell reached over and squeezed his shoulder. 

Nina glanced from Loki to the Carl, her eyes narrowing as she heard the violence underlying both of their words. Loki, while aware of her discomfort, or disapproval—probably both, he thought—couldn’t find it in himself to be bothered by it. _That_ bothered him, but no one had ever accused him of being soft. He had always preferred trickery and persuasion to get what he wanted, but even recovered from his madness, he wasn’t above violence if it became necessary. He couldn’t change his basic nature, and that was a nature that would do anything to protect those he loved. If Herrick knew something about the threat Kemp posed to Annie, Loki would know what it was.

“Well,” Annie said after a moment, sitting back against the couch cushions and crossing her legs, “this is all moot if we don’t have a way to do it.”

Loki opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Carl said, “Actually, I’ve been thinking about that. I think it should be me.”

Mitchell frowned at him. “You think what should be you?”

“I should be the one to make the report,” Carl clarified. 

“You’re wanted for questioning in Dan’s murder case,” Mitchell said. “You can’t just go waltzing into a police station. And that’s to say nothing of what will happen when they try to take your photograph.”

“They won’t,” Carl said calmly. “Look, if I go in with evidence against this priest of yours, then it takes care of two things at once. They get to question me, and we get to send them after Kemp.”

“But coming forward now will just make you seem more suspicious,” Mitchell protested. “Why run, if you knew something? They’ll never believe you.”

“I can say I was frightened. I came home and I saw Kemp in the middle of some kind of…” He trailed off, thinking. “I don’t know, some kind of ritual murder, and I ran and have been hiding ever since. I came forward now because I thought the police could protect me.”

“How can you—that doesn’t make any _sense_.” It was George who protested, this time. “What sort of motive would a priest have for killing Dan?”

Carl made a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter. _I_ don’t need to know his motive. The story just has to be believable enough.” He turned to Loki. “I thought you might be able to help with that. You can do a spell to make people and things unnoticeable. Can you do something to make the police more likely to believe my story?”

Loki nodded. He swallowed his mouthful of kung pao chicken and said, “That would not be difficult to do. I can charm your voice for a few hours, while you speak to the police.” He took another bite of chicken and chewed thoughtfully. “It would help to have some concrete evidence, as well,” he added after a moment. “The story will point them in the right direction, but it will need something to back it up.”

“And something to get them from the story and the evidence to Kemp,” Mitchell said. He looked at Carl. “Unless you have a good reason in mind for you to have recognized him?”

Carl shook his head. Loki, still frowning in thought, said, “I believe I can plant the suggestion in their minds.” He looked at Carl. “You should make sure you ask for one of those sketch artists. I think I can make use of that.”

They talked late into the night, hammering out details of their plan. It would take a few days to get everything into place: First, planting evidence of a ritual murder at Carl’s old flat, subtle enough for the police to have missed the first time, but convincing enough to sell Carl’s story. It was Annie who suggested that they make use of Loki’s role as magical consultant for the Avengers.

“It’s not like people don’t know who you are,” she pointed out. “We just need to make sure they don’t know of your connection to Carl.”

Loki nodded slowly, and after more talk they decided to find Carl a room in a hostel in town; Loki could alter the records to show that he had been staying there since Dan’s death, and the sort of place they picked wouldn’t be a place where people made a habit of asking a lot of questions. Mitchell didn’t like it, but Carl convinced him it was the best course of action, and Mitchell had to admit that he couldn’t come up with any better ideas; having Loki involved with the police would allow them to make certain that Kemp would be brought in for questioning.

“And even better, _I_ can question him,” Loki pointed out. “They may not be able to hold him for more than a day, but I won’t need more than an hour or two to get something from him.” He frowned. “What is the saying? Two birds with one rock?”

“Stone,” Annie corrected.

“Stone,” Loki repeated, satisfied.

Nina yawned, and George looked at his watch. “It’s after twelve,” he observed.

“No wonder,” Nina said. “I’m exhausted.”

Mitchell levered himself out of the red chair. “I think it’s my turn to do the washing up,” he said, looking forlornly about the lounge, strewn with dirty plates and take-out containers.

“I’ll help.” Loki stood and began collecting trash. After another moment Mitchell began to stack plates, while everyone else made their way up to bed.

Loki and Mitchell worked in companionable silence for a time, before Loki looked sidelong at his friend and asked, “Are you all right?”

Mitchell started, pulled out of his thoughts. “Me?” he asked. “Of course. Why?”

Loki rolled his eyes, and Mitchell grimaced. “Okay, point taken.” He took the plate that Loki handed him and dried it, setting it atop the stack of clean plates on the counter. “I’m all right,” he said in a low voice. “Just…” he trailed off.

Loki handed him another plate, arching an eyebrow expectantly. Mitchell sighed, taking it from him.

“I’m supposed to go on a date with Lucy on Thursday.”

The other eyebrow rose to meet the first. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s a terrible idea,” Mitchell said flatly.

“Why?”

“You have to ask?”

Loki sighed. He turned off the water and leaned against the counter, his elbows resting on the edge of the sink basin. “Mitchell, you’re stronger than you think,” he said. “Truly. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself.”

Mitchell’s eyebrows drew down. “I’m not punishing myself. I’m protecting her. And all of us.”

“So this isn’t about Lauren?”

He flinched. “Of course it’s about Lauren. She’s proof I’m not safe.” He picked up the stack of clean plates and carried them to the cupboard.

Loki watched him for a moment, thinking of their conversation the night Loki had given him his blood so that he could recover from the stake wound. “You’ve changed.” Mitchell turned around, his eyes haunted. “You have to believe you’ve changed since then, Mitchell.”

Mitchell smiled tightly. “Thank you for believing that,” he said. He shook his head. “But I don’t think I can. If I’m wrong, I kill someone.”

Loki looked down at his feet. Mitchell was right; the stakes were too high. But Loki thought _he_ was right, as well: Mitchell could trust himself, if he only would. “Think about it,” he suggested.

Mitchell sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he agreed, and pushed his way through the bead curtain. Loki stayed where he was, leaning against the sink, for a long time before he went up to bed.

***

Mitchell thought about it, as he lay awake that night beside Carl, who had slipped quickly into a restless sleep, exhausted by the day’s events. Loki might be right; Mitchell wanted to believe that he had changed. But could he stake Lucy’s life on it? Was he willing to?

He was still thinking about it the following morning, brooding over his coffee and a stale pastry in the cafeteria after George left him to find Nina, when Lucy slid into the seat across from him. Jolted from his ruminations, which had mostly been about her, for a moment he could only open and close his mouth soundlessly. At last he managed, “Lucy. Hi.”

She smiled. “Hello. You looked like you could use some company.”

“Oh. Um, yeah. Thanks.” He took a bite of his pastry to cover his discomfort, made a face, and added around his mouthful of dry crumbs,“George was here.”

“I saw.” She peeled the paper top from two containers of creamer, dumped them in her coffee, and stirred it with a plastic straw. “He seems to have abandoned you.”

He shrugged. “He went to find Nina. His girlfriend. Have you met her? She’s a nurse. Tiny, blonde, terrifying thing.” She chuckled. He realized he was babbling, and clamped his mouth shut. He picked up his coffee and took several long swallows, marveling at her ability to unsettle him the way she did—and not only because she seemed to believe in vampires. If he’d had a pulse, it would be fluttering in his throat about now.

Lucy sipped her coffee. “I was thinking,” she ventured after a moment. “About dinner tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Mitchell raised his eyebrows, trying for nonchalance. He thought he succeeded.

She grinned wickedly. “You can take me to Casamia. I think that will make up for standing me up yesterday.”

Mitchell put down his fork. He knew the game he should play—protest he could never afford it, assuming they could even get in the door; suggest the shadiest food stall he knew, and they would land somewhere appropriately date-like for two ordinary people—but he couldn’t do it. His nervousness faded. He studied her face for several moments, as the gleam of humor in her eyes faded to match his seriousness, her eyes questioning. Finally he sat back with a sigh and asked, “Why do you want to go out with me?”

She studied his face in turn. “Do I need a reason?” He shrugged. She paused, and then, “You’re interesting. And not bad to look at, either.”

He barked a surprised laugh, looking away. “I’m flattered.” He pushed his hands back through his hair. He grasped at the first excuse he could come up with. “But…I’m a cleaner. You’re a doctor. I mean, surely…” He trailed off as she arched an eyebrow, her expression turning cool.

“Do you think I’m that shallow?”

“No!” Several people sitting nearby glanced around at them. He lowered his voice. “No. Of course not. I just…”

“You just?”

He shook his head and looked down at his hands. He plucked at a loose thread on his glove. “It’s not a good idea,” he said at last, coming to a decision. “ _I’m_ not a good idea.” He scraped his chair back. “I’m sorry, Lucy. I shouldn’t have led you on, but it’s better if you don’t get involved with me. I’m—” He broke off, shook his head again. “It’s not a good idea.” Lucy watched him weave his way among the tables, drop his tray off at the window, and disappear into the corridor, his head down, hands jammed in his pockets.

***

Lucy stared after him for several long moments after he disappeared into the corridor. She had meant to put him at ease, maybe even find an opening to tell him what she knew, and that she meant no harm, but he hadn’t given her the chance. _I’m not a good idea._ She expected him to be wary because of George, but he had said _he_ wasn’t a good idea. He was protecting himself—protecting _her_ from something. Turning the statement over in her mind, she could come to only one conclusion.

George wasn’t the only werewolf in their household.


	14. Chapter 14

Kemp sat at his desk, making notes after meeting with Lucy and touring the roughed-in warehouse he had procured for her research. He smiled to himself. Things were proceeding more smoothly than he could have hoped. 

It had taken him only a week to locate the warehouse and begin construction for her laboratory, and his ample resources ensured that it would be complete within another two. The space would be utilitarian, but would have all the necessary equipment to test the professor’s hypothesis. Just today he had arranged for the purchase of the massive compression chamber she had requested, large enough for an adult to stand up in, to be delivered the following week. They wouldn’t be in time for this month’s full moon—tomorrow night—but he hoped that Lucy would be able to convince George Sands in time for the next. He would prefer the young man’s participation to be voluntary.

A soft knock on his office door made him glance up. Kemp blinked, surprised to see a uniformed policeman standing in the doorway. The young man had freckles and a flustered look. He took off his cap and ran a hand nervously through his ginger hair when Kemp sat back in his chair, one eyebrow raised. “May I help you?” Kemp asked.

The young policeman licked his lips and ran his hand through his hair again. “I’m very sorry to bother you, sir. Reverend.” He had a strong northern accent. “I need to ask you to come down to the station with me. We need to ask you some questions.”

“Questions?” Kemp repeated, his voice surprised. His mind raced. What had he done lately that might prompt police interest in him? Kemp was always careful, but mistakes were inevitable. Even the Templars’ network that existed to catch such things before they made it to the police was not one hundred percent. And there was Herrick to consider; Kemp knew that he was pursuing certain . . . extracurricular activities when he sent him out on his missions. 

On the surface, though, Kemp remained calm. “Whatever about?” he asked.

“Um.” The policeman wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “We’re hoping you might have some information that can help in a murder inquiry, sir. Reverend. But I do need you to come to the station with me.”

“I see.” With deliberate motions, put the cap on his pen and set it one side, then closed his journal and put it away in a drawer. The lad was nervous, and Kemp didn’t really have any desire to make his job difficult, but he also wished to make clear that coming with him was his own decision. “I’m afraid I won’t be much help to you,” he said as he got to his feet. “I lead a rather quiet life.” He turned a regretful smile, with a hint of amusement lurking behind it, on the young officer, who returned it briefly. Mostly, he looked relieved that Kemp wasn’t protesting or taking offense to his request. “You don’t mind if I come in my own car?” he asked, as he followed the officer outside. “Officer…?”

“Uh, Sims, sir. And, um, well, we’d really prefer— I mean, my superiors—”

“Of course.” Kemp allowed himself to be ushered to the police cruiser and sat in the back. He surreptitiously reached for his phone and sent off a brief, coded message while the officer walked around to the driver’s seat. He was curious, though not particularly worried. Had Herrick managed to implicate him in something he’d done? It wouldn’t surprise him. His association with the Templars usually kept suspicion from falling on Kemp when the police occasionally found themselves embroiled in supernatural crimes, but the system wasn’t perfect. There were safeguards. Whatever was going on—and Kemp had been quite busy lately, quite apart from whatever extracurriculars Herrick had been up to—he was certain he would be home by nightfall, with profuse apologies from the local authorities.

They kept him waiting for some time at the station, alone in an interview room. He used the time to pray, meditating on his work and his mission.

He was not a man easily put off balance. But if he was not quite thrown by the man who finally appeared to question him, Kemp was, perhaps, a bit taken aback. The man was not what he expected from a police detective.

He was tall and thin, dressed casually in dark blue jeans and a green button-up shirt left open at the throat and untucked at the waist. He had long hair that he had left loose around his shoulders, prominent cheekbones and striking blue-green eyes. He smiled, not entirely pleasantly.

“Hello, Reverend Kemp,” he said. His accent was smooth, upper-crust. He pulled out the chair opposite Kemp and set the file he was carrying on the table. Opening it, he slid several photographs across the table toward Kemp.

Kemp glanced down at the photos—interiors of a room—and then returned to studying the man’s face. “You’re not a detective,” Kemp finally concluded.

The smile flashed again. “No,” the man agreed. He rested his forearms on the table and folded his hands. “I am a . . . consultant.” He nudged the photos closer to Kemp. “I’m wondering if you can tell me anything about the symbols drawn on the floor in these photos.”

This time, Kemp didn’t even glance at the photos. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said. “Mr. . . ?”

“Ah! Forgive me,” the man said. “I assumed you would recognize me.”

Kemp’s bafflement was genuine. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“No.” The man looked down at himself. “I suppose, out of my costume, I am not as recognizable as my friends seem to think.”

“Your. . . costume?”

The air shimmered around the man. Kemp frowned, squinting his eyes. He could still see him sitting there in his button-up shirt and jeans, but overlaying that there appeared another image of the man, dressed in leather and armor in green and black and silver, and on his head a helm with tall, curling horns. Kemp’s mouth went dry. He glanced at the door, but there was no one visible in the hallway outside. Likely they were shrouded in some kind of illusion. “Satan,” he breathed. He scraped his chair back and got to his feet, drawing a large cross from the inside pocket of his overcoat. “Begone, devil!” he cried, holding it up.

For a long moment the man simply stared at him. And then, to Kemp’s surprise, he burst out laughing. The misty image disappeared. He fell back in his chair, hiccuping with laughter. Kemp slowly lowered the cross. He was growing more and more confused. And, though he was loath to admit it, more and more frightened.

The man—and he was, or looked, _young_ , Kemp observed in a detached way, like he was not more than 30—put a hand over his mouth, took a deep breath, and appeared to get himself under control. Then he glanced at Kemp and broke into another fit of laughter, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he managed at last. “That was—not the reaction I was expecting.” He wiped his eyes with the back of his wrist, and then indicated the chair Kemp had vacated. “Please,” he said, “sit. I am sorry, I did not mean to frighten you. Well. Not like that.”

Cautiously, Kemp pulled the chair back to its original place and sat, still clutching the wooden cross in one hand.

“My name is Loki Odinson,” the man went on. “I am the magical consultant for the Avengers. Perhaps you have heard of them?”

“Ye-es,” Kemp responded slowly. He looked the man up and down, and yes, he realized, he did look familiar. Kemp remembered the shape of the helm from the television reports on that incident in London two years before. Loki had looked like a devil to him then, too, but his association with the Avengers had tempered Kemp’s opinion. 

The man—Loki—smiled. He indicated the photographs again. “And so I am consulting on a case before this department. It appears to be a ritual killing of some sort. I am wondering if you are familiar with the symbols on the floor in these photos.”

Finally, Kemp pulled the photographs closer and studied them. They showed the interior of a bedroom from several different angles. It was messy, lived in—died in: there was blood on the rumpled sheets of the bed, though not as much as one might expect in a murder scene. On the floor, a rug had been pulled back to reveal symbols chalked onto the floor, partially rubbed away but still visible. They looked to Kemp like generic arcana, pentagrams and such, except for one symbol. That, he recognized, and it made a chill run through him. 

He passed the photos back. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

Loki took them with a noncommittal hum. He took a moment to gather the photos into their folder. “Tell me, Reverend Kemp, what do you know of the Templar Knights?” he asked.

Kemp was expecting that. The symbol in the photograph had been the secret sigil of his order. He steepled his hands in front of him and looked mildly interested. “A historical order of knights founded during the Crusades,” he said. “A number of myths surround them, though I’m not particularly well-versed.”

Loki hummed again, nodding. He turned his intense, blue-green gaze on Kemp, who found himself quite unable to look away. “One of those myths is that the Templars survived as an order into the present. It says they hunt monsters. Vampires.”

Kemp scoffed. “Oh, come. There are no such things.” But his voice wavered, just a bit.

Loki continued to hold his eyes. “You and I both know differently, Reverend Kemp.”

Kemp scoffed again, or tried to; it came out as more of a cough. “What—” He cleared his throat. “What exactly are you trying to suggest?”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “I am merely trying to determine your relationship to the Templars,” he replied, his voice mild.

“Surely you do not think that _I_ am one of these Templars?” His voice had regained some of its strength, and he was able to suffuse it with an appropriate amount of disdain. He even managed a dismissive chuckle. “I am an old man,” he said.

Loki shrugged. “You were not always.” He steepled his fingers and studied Kemp over them for a few moments. At last he sighed. “Let us not play games, Mr. Kemp. I know what you are, and I know what you have done.” He rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “You are responsible for a murder, and your actions are placing a very dear friend of mine in danger.”

“Murder?” Kemp repeated, incredulous enough to drop his act. He let out a humorless laugh. “The death of a vampire is no murder.”

“Herrick killed a human.” Loki’s voice was soft. “The lover of a vampire who had not fed on human blood in over twenty years. That is on your head.”

Kemp’s lip curled. Not only a sympathizer, but a sodomite. He had no sympathy for such a man. “He got what he deserved.”

“Is that so,” Loki murmured. He sat back in his chair, his expression unreadable.

“That is so,” Kemp replied. “Vampires are monsters, and those that shelter them are no less guilty. They all need to be put down. I should think you and your Avengers would agree.”

Again, that noncommittal hum. Kemp found it infuriating. “By whatever means necessary?” Loki asked.

“Indeed.” Kemp glowered.

Loki’s expression turned pitying. He studied Kemp for a long time. “You really cannot see it, can you?” he said at last. “How your desire for vengeance has led you astray. I wonder, how would your family feel about what you have become?”

A wave of anger rolled up in Kemp’s chest, flushing his skin and lending him strength. His expression turned thunderous. He surged to his feet. “How dare you.” He placed his hands flat on the table, leaning over Loki and looking down into his face. “How dare you!” He didn’t raise his voice, but the tone he used should have struck fear into the man seated across from him. Loki merely looked at him, his expression mild and a little sad. Kemp struck the table hard with his palms. “I am on a holy crusade to restore balance in the world. I am guided by an Angel of the Lord Himself. Your ”—he spat—“are scourges upon this Earth, and I intend to cleanse it. Of all of you.”

Loki’s expression turned hard. “Annie Sawyer,” he said. His voice was like ice. “Tell me what you and your—angel—intend.”

Kemp’s lip curled. “You cannot stop it,” he said. “Whatever you do to me. This world must be cleansed, the balance righted. She is crucial. She must cross over.”

“ _How?_ ” For the first time, there was a hint of agitation in Loki’s voice. He rose. He was taller than Kemp, and he looked down into his face with eyes that suddenly seemed more red than blue-green. There was a tinge of blue to his skin, and markings on his face that made him look savage. Kemp took an involuntary step back. Loki pushed the table between them aside as if it were a toy and closed the distance between them. “Tell me what you intend.”

Kemp met his gaze defiantly. “She must pass from this world to the next!”

“ _Why?_ ” Loki’s voice rose to a shout. “Why Annie? Why her?”

“It is not for me to question God’s plan. Nor is it for you.”

Loki searched his face for several long moments. He let out a breath. All at once he looked calm and sad again, the red gone from his eyes and the blue from his skin. He reached up and took hold of Kemp’s head in a firm grip. “I am really very sorry,” he said, sounding like he meant it. “But you know more than you are saying. You have information even you do not know you have, and it is quite urgent that I have it.” His grip tightened, the tips of his fingers digging into Kemp’s scalp. Kemp could not look away from Loki’s eyes, now blue-green, now red. “I’m afraid this is going to hurt,” he said, and then Kemp saw nothing at all.

***

The onslaught of images and sensations from Kemp’s mind was almost too much for Loki. The first time he had only brushed against him, careful not to be detected. Now he dove in careless of the consequences. He did not try to hurt Kemp deliberately, but this kind of searching and sifting in a person’s mind was painful when it was done without permission—and, if he was being honest, Loki also didn’t try very hard _not_ to hurt him.

He saw the angel, a silhouette of bright white light that looked vaguely like a winged man. He smelled its stench, sulfurous and metallic. And he saw the agents: the many, many agents, mediums and psychics and ghosts, who all had orders to pull Annie to the other side at the first opportunity. It had used Kemp to place the agents, seducing him with a vision of a world without monsters, a heaven on Earth. It was no complicated plan: simply an assault designed to overwhelm, to pick away at defenses over time. Eventually, one would succeed.

Loki pulled away, feeling sick. Before him, Kemp sagged to the floor, retaining enough conscious control to catch himself against the wall and slide down it. He curled on his side, moaning. Loki wanted to do much the same.

Instead he scrubbed his hands over his face and back through his hair. Kemp would recover in a few minutes, and would be quite confused. Loki wished to be gone by then, and he still had a part to play. He had cast an illusion that would show the cameras and the officers watching through the one-way glass a scene of Kemp confessing to Dan’s murder and then breaking down. Loki had no doubt that the Templars would find a way exonerate him before very long, but it was good enough to hold him for a few days, long enough to search the church and take care of Herrick.

He took another deep breath and squared his shoulders. He willed himself to steadiness for as long as it took to be complete his performance as magical consultant and get out of the station to Mitchell’s Volvo at the far side of the parking lot, where he finally let his knees give way and collapsed into the driver’s seat. His head ached. He pressed his shaking hands together between his knees.

He was still trying to master himself when a rustle sounded in the air beside him, and a few seconds later Annie appeared in the passenger seat. “Well?” she asked. She had wanted to come with him to question Kemp, but Loki had convinced her that he would be distracted with her there, and he was worried that Kemp might try. . . something . . . that Loki couldn’t counter. What, he could not say, but he was glad she had agreed. Secretly, he was glad that she hadn’t seen him as he had been with Kemp. He didn’t like for Annie to see that side of him, even though he believed she would think no less of him for it.

He jumped when she appeared, still on edge after his conversation, and exhausted from the strain of creating the second, false interrogation for the benefit of the police officers. Annie grimaced. “Sorry,” she said. She gestured, both hands fluttering. “I’m nervous, too. What did you find out?”

Loki licked his lips. “He has agents everywhere,” he said. “All with orders to try to pull you over to the other side if they get the opportunity.” He pushed his hands through his hair, not looking at her. “I wish I had better news.”

“Do we know why?” Annie asked.

“He thinks he is on some kind of holy mission,” he said. Loki clamped down on his sudden urge to laugh, worried if he gave into it he might dissolve into hysterics. “He thinks somehow that your crossing over will . . . “ He gestured helplessly. “Will right the wrongs of the world.”

Annie looked baffled. “Why me?” she asked. “What’s so special about me?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at her and reddened. “I mean—” he began.

Annie patted his hand. “I know what you mean,” she said.

They lapsed into silence. 

“Well,” Annie said after a few moments, in her bravest choice. “I guess it’s a good thing that Sykes is helping me learn to close doors, isn’t it?”

Loki smiled weakly. “I suppose it is.”

Annie reached over and stroked his forehead, smoothing his hair. Loki leaned into her touch, enjoying the coolness of her hand against his skin. “You look about done in,” she said. “Can you drive?” 

“I am all right,” Loki assured her. He reached for the ignition key and turned it. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “I am very tired, but I can drive home.”

Annie gave his cheek another pat. “It’ll be all right, you’ll see,” she said. Her voice turned steely. “I’m not letting anyone take me where I don’t want to go. Not ever again.”

Loki paused in the middle of looking around to make sure the way was clear before he backed out of the parking space. He turned back to her with exaggerated caution. “May I take you home?” he asked. 

Annie managed a stern look for several seconds before she grinned and then giggled. “But of course, kind sir. I would be much obliged.”

He grinned back. He was relieved to discover he could still find some humor even in their grim situation. Loki was still afraid, but for now at least, fear relaxed its hold.

***

When they got back to Windsor Terrace, Annie went straight for the tea things. Loki followed her into the kitchen, leaned against the refrigerator and did his best not to fidget. He would have liked the soothing ritual of making tea for himself, but as he had the privilege of _drinking_ the tea to calm his nerves, he didn’t want to deny Annie the relief he knew she got from making it.

At last, when she was stirring sugar into three cups—one for herself, to hold, extra sugar for Loki’s, and one for Mitchell, who was in the lounge—Loki said, “I don’t think you should come to the church tonight.”

Annie pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows as if to say, oh really? She crossed her arms and looked at him expectantly.

Loki pushed away from the fridge and paced across the kitchen. “What if Kemp’s angel is there?” he asked. “He—it—is interested in _you_. It will be dangerous.”

Annie sighed, but her jaw remained stubbornly set. “I know,” she said. “But if it could just pull me over to the other side, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I want to see what I’m up against.”

“It may not be able to reach you _here,_ ” Loki replied. He met her eyes and held them, trying to communicate to her the urgency of his request. “But I have no idea what it might be capable of. Its power may be more potent within the confines of the church. It has been able to reach out to Kemp, and that means that the boundary between its world and ours is thin in that place. There may even be a portal large enough for it to reach across and—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked down at his hands, twisted tightly together, and took a deep breath, trying to force himself to relax. He knew what he was asking of her, and he had already convinced her to stay behind while he questioned Kemp this afternoon. “Please, Annie.” He looked back up at her, to see her expression had softened, a little. “I am not trying to—to control you, or to fight your battles for you. I know—I know you will have to face this eventually, but I do not want to provoke a confrontation before we must, and . . . I think your presence there could do just that.”

This time Annie looked away first. She played with the torn sleeve of her sweater. “Okay,” she agreed at last. She looked back up at him. “I don’t like it, but okay.”

Loki let out the breath he had been holding. “Thank you,” he said. He took the mug of tea she held out for him, a tacit peace offering, and followed her out of the kitchen.

“I guess you’re right,” she added, as they passed through the bead curtain. “We don’t want to be ambushed on our reconnaissance mission.” She glanced over her shoulder and gave him a smile, letting him know everything was all right. Loki smiled back.

As soon as they entered the lounge, Mitchell turned off the television and looked expectantly at them.

Loki let out another sigh as he joined Mitchell on the couch, handing him his tea. He patted his lap to invite the kittens, curled up with Mitchell, over to him, and they both promptly clambered over the cushions to drape themselves over his knees. Annie sat down on the floor on the other side of the coffee table while Loki briefly recounted his conversation with Kemp. When he finished, Mitchell sat back thoughtfully.

“An angel,” he said. He glanced at Loki. “Do you think that’s what it is?”

Loki shrugged. He sipped his tea, savoring the warmth that flowed through him and restored his strength. “I am not sure I think there are such things as angels.”

Mitchell snorted. “Says the god.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “I am not a god, Mitchell.”

“No,” Mitchell agreed. “But you’re the reality behind the story of a god. If you exist, it stands to reason angels exist, too.”

“Or it could be something else letting Kemp think it’s an angel,” Annie pointed out.

“True,” Mitchell said. “What do you think, Loki?”

Loki sipped his tea and considered it. After a few moments he said, “I am not sure I think it matters. Although,” he added, “I cannot a imagine an angel that smells as bad as whatever has been using Kemp.” Annie and Mitchell both smiled at that. Loki only grimaced, though he had meant it for a joke. He looked down at his hands, wrapped around his mug. “Whatever it is,” he murmured, “it smells like death.”


	15. Chapter 15

The churchyard was silent in the moonlight as Loki, Mitchell, and Carl climbed the hill that led up to the old stone building, keeping to the shadows alongside the road. Loki had brought them there through the branches of Yggdrasil, emerging a short distance from the church; they still weren’t sure if Carl and Mitchell would be able to enter the church grounds safely, and Loki didn’t want to take any chances by setting them down inside. He held his breath as they approached the gate to the cemetery that surrounded the church. Carl and Mitchell passed through it without resistance. The three of them paused inside the gate and exchanged a look.

“Well.” Mitchell scrubbed a hand back through his hair, looking around. “It’s not hallowed ground. Not anymore.” 

“Are you surprised?” Carl asked.

Mitchell shrugged. He turned to Loki. “Are you sure you want to do this tonight?” he asked. He flicked a glance at Carl. “We can come back tomorrow.”

Loki shook his head. His spell-casting at the police station that afternoon had tired him, but after a long nap that evening, a great deal of tea, and a large meal, he felt sufficient to face whatever they might find here tonight. More to the point, he did not want to trust too heavily to the Bristol police to hold Kemp. They had confirmation that he would be held tonight, and Loki wanted to act while he knew the priest was out of the way. Conducting their search tonight meant he might be able to complete the picture he had from questioning Kemp this afternoon. Maybe he would be able to find out, finally, what was after Annie, and why. “I am fine,” he said. “I do not want to wait.”

“Nor do I,” murmured Carl.

Mitchell nodded. 

Carl took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tightened his grip on the stake in his hand. “Let’s go,” he said.

***

Their search of Kemp’s office and living quarters turned up Kemp’s journal and a bloodstained bible and little else. The journal Loki tucked away to read later; the bible he left in its drawer, with its worn photo of a much-younger Kemp and his family tucked inside, and a renewed sense of pity for him. The man whose mind Loki had plumbed earlier that day had been driven mad with grief, and was being used by a creature who had no care for what he had lost. Inwardly, Loki shuddered; but for the hope that had driven Odin to cast a spell after him when he fell from the Bifrost, he himself might have met the same fate.

He pulled open the rest of the drawers in the desk and paged through files, pulling a few papers that looked to have promising information on the Templars, but he suspected that most of what was worth knowing would not be trusted to paper.

“We found the stairs.” Mitchell stuck his head into the office from the corridor and beckoned to him. “I thought they’d be hidden better.”

Loki left the remaining files and followed Mitchell into the corridor, where they passed through a heavy wooden door with an old lock (easily picked, Mitchell observed), down an old staircase, the stone steps worn from the traffic of countless feet over the years. Loki conjured a ball of green flame to light their way, holding it up over his head as they descended the stairs. Carl grimaced in the eerie light as he looked around the cellar. “I don’t suppose you can make that a different color?” he asked.

Loki glanced around with an apologetic half-smile. “I suppose it is rather sinister,” he agreed. “But I don’t get to choose. My magic is just the color that it is.”

“Should have brought a torch,” Carl murmured, but there was humor in his voice.

The cellar was cavernous, stacked along its walls with rotting crates and and boxes that seemed to have lain untouched for years. A thick layer of dust lay over everything. Their footsteps stirred it, sending sparkling motes flying. Carl sneezed.

Mitchell walked to the center of the room and turned around. “Is this it?” he asked.

Loki frowned, probing out with his magical senses. He had studied the plan of the church before coming, and had discerned this cellar as the most likely place for Herrick’s prison. The intensity of the magical residue, with its stench of death, told him the same: this cellar should not be empty. And yet it was.

It took him a few minutes to find the trick of it. The cellar _was_ empty, and it wasn’t. The concealment was far more sophisticated than Loki had expected; clearly it had not been worked by Kemp. Something much more powerful had created this, perhaps working through him. It was like a kaleidoscope: a series of rooms all in the same space, set apart in pocket dimensions alongside one another. All it took to move from one to the next was to find the right way to shift, the right pressure to exert, and—

There. Carl and Mitchell staggered as the room shifted. Loki’s sorcerous green light gave way to flickering candlelight, and both vampires shielded their eyes. Loki looked around, and realized why.

The entire room was lined with crosses: inlaid into the floor and the walls, carved into stone and wood, drawn and painted on every surface. In the center of the room, standing within a circle on the floor, stood Herrick. When they appeared, he began to laugh.

He laughed so hard he doubled over, gasping for breath. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Mitchell!” he managed at last. He straightened. “I didn’t expect to see you up and about so soon. Fell off the wagon, have you?” Herrick had to squint against the crosses the lined the room, but he seemed to have grown accustomed to it; he didn’t shield his eyes with his hands as Carl and Mitchell did. He took in his three visitors. “The gang’s all here, I see. Well, not the whole gang. Where’s your ghostie friend?” He sneered. “And your dog?”

Mitchell twitched, but he kept a tight rein on his voice. “Hello, Herrick,” he said. He eyed the prison. “Moved up in the world, I see.”

Herrick bared his teeth. “A temporary situation. Come to make amends, Mitchell? I have friends in high places, you know.”

“So we hear. Rather strange company for you to be keeping.”

“Not by choice.” Herrick eyed Mitchell, a calculating glint in his eye. “Who was it?” he asked. “Who did you kill to save yourself?”

Mitchell snarled. Loki grabbed his arm. His muscles were rigid under his fingers. “Leave it, Mitchell,” he said softly. Mitchell relaxed, marginally. Loki kept his hold on his friend’s arm. 

A slow smile spread across Herrick’s face as he observed the exchange. “Him?” he surmised. He paced a few steps toward them, stopping at the edge of the circle at his feet. “What was it like?” he asked, in a tone that made Loki feel ill. Herrick licked his lips. “Have you brought him for me to taste?”

Mitchell very nearly freed himself from Loki’s grasp, and Loki very nearly let him, before he remembered himself. “Remember why we are here,” he said, as much to himself as to Mitchell.

“Yes.” Herrick paced back to the center of his circle, clasped his hands, and regarded the three of them. “Why _are_ you here?” He looked at Carl, eyed the stake in his hand. “Revenge? I am sorry about Dan. Business, you know.”

“I’m sure,” Carl murmured. His posture was rigid, his grip on the stake so tight Loki thought he might actually manage to snap it in two with his hand.

Herrick turned his attention back to Mitchell. “We could still do it, you know,” he said. His tone had turned soft, seductive. “Remake the world. If you let me out of here, everything could belong to us. The whole world could be ours.”

Mitchell shook his head. He had relaxed enough that Loki felt safe letting him go. He took a few steps toward his maker, pity on his face. “That’s just it, Herrick. You never saw it.”

Herrick raised his eyebrows. “Saw what?”

“It already is. You never needed to take anything.”

Herrick snorted. “I see you’ve become sentimental. It doesn’t suit you, Mitchell.”

Mitchell shrugged.

Loki listened with half an ear while he examined the prison more carefully. He had been holding a paralyzing spell at the ready since they first shifted into the room, but Herrick was making no move to approach them. It was almost as if—

“Fascinating,” Loki said aloud. The three vampires looked at him. Loki took a few steps toward the imprisoned vampire, his eyes on the circle that surrounded him, though he was careful to remain well beyond Herrick’s reach. “You cannot leave that circle, can you?”

Herrick bared his fangs, but the fact that he didn’t move was answer enough. Loki reached out a tendril of magic to the circle on the ground, careful not to break it, and raised his eyebrows. “Salt?” he asked. He glanced at Carl and Mitchell. “That’s true? You can’t cross a line of salt?”

“We can,” Mitchell said. “Whatever’s different about him, though . . .”

“Fascinating,” Loki said again.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Herrick said. “Positively scintillating. Can we get on with things, please? You’re obviously here to kill me, and I don’t have much hope of escaping you. What else do you want?”

“Information,” Loki replied. “We want to know what Kemp is working with.”

“Or being used by,” Mitchell said.

“We want to know what their plans are,” Loki added. 

Herrick’s lip curled. He folded his arms across his chest. “And what makes you think I would help you?”

“If you tell us, then I’ll kill you quickly,” Carl said. His voice was low and dangerous.

“It’s your choice,” Mitchell said.

Herrick shrugged. “Fast or slow, I die either way,” he said. “And I’m not exactly keen on helping you protect your dear little Annie. If nothing else, I can hope for a little payback of my own. She _did_ kill me the first time, after all.”

This time, it was Loki who lost his temper. He strode across the room, hurling a paralyzing spell at Herrick as he went, and dragged the vampire to the edge of the circle. He seized Herrick’s head in his hands and reached into his mind, pulling out every memory he had since he had returned, every possible clue to what they were facing.

He stepped away when he finished, white-faced and breathing hard. Herrick would have fallen to the ground, except for Loki’s power still holding him upright and rigid. Carl stepped close to him and, grim-faced, drive the sharpened stake into Herrick’s chest.

Herrick’s eyes opened wide. He gasped. For another moment his eyes remained bright, focused on his killer, and then all at once they, and everything else, turned dull. His skin turned gray, then black, and he crumbled to the ground. His ashes mingled with the salt on the floor. 

A wind rose up.

It swept along the floor, blowing the ashes and salt to the edges of the room, and then swirled up, lifting Loki’s hair off his neck, gently at first, then whipping it back from his face. He reached out his hands for Mitchell and Carl, catching each in a firm grip. “Hold on!” he shouted, over the roar. He wove a protective spell around the three of them, keeping them anchored on this realm against the otherworldly wind that tugged at them. They each clutched at his hands.

The candles lighting the room flickered and guttered out, but instead of leaving them in darkness, the room filled with blinding light. Still holding onto Mitchell’s hand, Loki threw his arm up to shield his eyes. He squinted, his eyes watering painfully, and just barely he made out a dark shape, tall, manlike, with wings curving high over its shoulders.

As Loki focused on the silhouette, the wind died down, and the light dimmed. He blinked the tears out of his eyes and looked around. He stood in a bare white room, still holding on to Carl and Mitchell, shielding their faces with their free hands. Loki could see the wind still buffeting them, though it no longer touched him. He blinked at the creature who stood before him.

It looked like a man, smartly-dressed in a pinstripe suit; sallow and dark-haired, with thin, bloodless lips and black eyes sunk deep in their sockets. The wings were a shadow on the wall behind him, but no less real for that; Loki shuddered at the power he sensed in them, at the depth of the shadow. He thought if he at them for looked too long, the darkness might swallow him up. He shook his head to clear it and redoubled the protective spell before he looked again at the creature’s face.

“What are you?” he asked.

It—he?—smiled. “I have been called many things.” The voice was deep but androgynous. It spoke without moving its lips. Its form shifted, melting from a well-dressed man to the hunched form of a crone. Stringy hair hung limp from inside a deep, ragged hood. “To some, I appear as a hag.” It shifted again, its back growing straight, and a skull grinned out from the hood, now decorated with flowers and beads. “I am La Santa Muerte.” Skin grew over the skull and the flowers changed, becoming a crown adorned with ostrich feathers. The skin took on a greenish cast and a long narrow beard grew from his chin. The rags transformed into pharaoh’s robes. “The Egyptians called me Osiris, and Anubis.” The man’s head changed to the head of a jackal, and then the form shifted again. “I am Hades.” Again. “I am Thanatos.”

The pinstripe suit reappeared, the sallow skin and dark hair and deep-shadow wings. “In this form, I am Azriel.”

Loki licked his lips. Azriel. The Angel of Death. No. It couldn’t be. It was a bluff. “What do you want?” he demanded. Loki’s voice was hoarse, breathless. “What do you want with Annie?”

Azriel smiled. “Only for her to do her duty.”

The possessiveness in that smile sparked something in Loki, some reserve of defiance and anger at this creature who dared to threaten Annie, threaten the life and the family he was building with her and the rest of their friends. He let a half-formed spell loose from the magical shields he still held, tossed it at the creature. It unravelled, dissolved. Azriel absorbed it, and smiled. 

“You cannot fight me,” he said. “I am elemental, part of the fabric of the universe. Of all universes. But you know that. I will have what I want.”

_No!_ Loki let out an incoherent sound of rage and hurled another spell. Again, it dissolved, and Azriel seemed to lap up his power, an appreciative expression on his face.

“Annie owes you no obligations!” Loki cried.

“ _She owes me everything!_ ” Azriel roared. The wind rose up once more, and Loki felt it buffeting at the anchors he had built to keep himself and his companions on Midgard. They wouldn’t last much longer. He heard Azriel’s roar of anger, and he shut his eyes, shutting him out, shutting out his own anger. He would be no use to Annie if he got the three of them killed here. 

He extended his power to reinforce his hold on Mitchell and Carl, and then he reached into the branches of Yggdrasil, and heaved himself and his two friends into the World Tree.

It took all of Loki’s remaining strength to make the short journey back to Windsor Terrace. He could still feel Azriel reaching for them, but evidently his power could not extend far beyond the church, because the farther Loki climbed, the weaker his pull became, until it was barely detectable; and then, at last, it was gone.

Loki dropped them into the back garden of the little pink house. The three of them staggered, breathing hard and clutching one another. The garden spun around him. For several moments Loki thought he hadn’t landed them quite right, because nothing would stay still, and the ground seemed to tilt under his feet. Then he realized that it was his head that was spinning, and not the garden. Distantly, he heard someone calling his name—no. Many someones, three voices at least. Four? He was listening for one in particular, and heard it, urgent and worried, but he was having trouble remembering how to answer back. He blinked. Annie’s face filled his vision, but she seemed faraway, as though he were looking down a long tunnel. Something cold touched his hand. “Annie?” he managed. His own voice sounded distant.

Loki wobbled on his feet for a few more seconds before his knees buckled. He was dimly aware of someone catching him under the arms, and then darkness closed over him.

***

“I’ve got him.” Mitchell lowered Loki carefully to the ground, cradling his head and shoulders in his lap. Annie knelt beside him and patted Loki’s cheeks, calling his name. He didn’t respond. In the yellow light from the street lamps and the windows, he looked pale and drawn. George crouched on his other side and picked up Loki’s arm, feeling for a pulse at his wrist. Mitchell did the same at his throat, and found it regular and strong. “I think he’s all right,” he said.

“ _All right?_ ” Annie squeaked. “He’s—”

“Exhausted,” Mitchell finished. “We were attacked. I think it took everything he had to get us out of there. But I think he’s okay. Just—exhausted.” At least, there were no visible marks on him, and he had been lucid enough to get the three of them home. What other injuries a magical battle could do, though—Mitchell didn’t like to guess. Nor did the rest of them.

“What happened?” George asked. “Did you see the—?” He gestured. Angel? Demon?

Mitchell shook his head. “I don’t know, exactly,” he admitted. “There was a wind, and all this light. I saw a shape. But—I think Loki talked to it. Whatever ‘it’ is.” He glanced at Carl, who shook his head.

“I thought I heard him talking,” he said. “But I couldn’t tell what he was saying.”

“But Herrick’s gone,” Mitchell added. “We made sure of that.”

George nodded. “We’ll have to wait for him to wake up to tell us about it, then,” he said, uncharacteristically optimistic, though his voice was unsteady.

“Right,” Annie agreed. Her voice was full of forced cheerfulness that her face belied. She reached down and touched Loki’s cheek again, tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. “Come on,” she said at last, getting to her feet. “Let’s get him up to bed. I don’t want him to be cold. You know how he hates that.”

“I’ve got him,” Mitchell said again. He shifted so he could lift him, grunting as he stood; Loki was heavier than he might have expected, for someone so skinny. His long arms and legs dangled. Annie darted up the steps to get the door.

***

Mitchell left Annie to finish getting Loki settled, sensing that she wanted to be alone with him, and found Carl still in the garden, smoking on the back stoop. Mitchell got two beers from the fridge and joined him, lighting a cigarette of his own. Carl took the bottle from him with a murmur of thanks, and they sat in silence for a time, watching the sky lighten from deep blue to gray as dawn crept nearer. 

“What will you do now?” Mitchell asked.

Carl took a last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out on the step beside him. “I don’t know.” 

Mitchell hesitated, then said, “You know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you want.”

He smiled briefly. “Thanks. But I think—” He broke off and fell silent for a moment, his face distant. He shook his head. “I need to get out of here. Away from Bristol.” He glanced at Mitchell. “Where was Ivan planning to send me?”

“Brazil, I think.”

“Brazil,” Carl repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth. He took a long swallow of his beer. “Yes. I think that will do. If the offer for the papers is still good?”

“I’m sure it is.” Mitchell occupied himself with rolling another cigarette and lighting it so he wouldn’t have to look at Carl. “I’m sorry. For pulling you into this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Still. Herrick was using you to get to me.” Mitchell had always been the cause of trouble for Carl. Carl had never been like him; he had always been sickened by what he was, had had no trouble turning his back on the other vampires. It was Mitchell, always conflicted, always trying to straddle two worlds, who invited trouble. He turned his head to blow smoke away from his friend. “I feel responsible.” 

“You’re not.” Carl laid a hand on Mitchell’s knee. Mitchell looked at it. His hand didn’t feel warm through the fabric of his jeans, but he exerted a solid, reassuring pressure. Mitchell felt an ache growing in his chest. “It’s not you,” Carl said. “I’m not leaving because of you. I just . . . I need a fresh start. You know how that is.”

“Yeah.” Mitchell’s voice was thick. He thought of how George and Annie and Loki had given him the same, time and again. He put his hand over Carl’s and squeezed.

“I feel empty,” Carl said. “Everything here just feels sad and empty. I need to go away.”

Mitchell thought about the flat, with its bloody sheets and remnants of over a decade spent together. He knew Dan was gone. He squeezed Carl’s hand again. “I understand.”

Carl’s voice was wistful when he said, “Maybe you can come visit me, sometime.”

Mitchell closed his eyes against the tears that wanted to well up, swallowed the lump that was rising in his throat. He smiled against them, and met Carl’s eyes. “Count on it.”

Carl smiled back. He reached up with his free hand and cupped Mitchell’s cheek, and then pressed a kiss to his lips. “I do love you,” he said.

They rested their foreheads together for a moment. “I love you, too,” Mitchell said.

Carl ran his fingers through Mitchell’s hair and sat back. The two of them watched the sky lighten from gray to pale blue. Fingers of pink and orange reached up from behind the buildings, and the sounds of another day began. Mitchell leaned back on his elbows, content, for the first time, with what lay between them. His gaze drifted up to the window at the top of the house that opened into Loki’s box room. One day, perhaps they would make something more of it; but for now, he had a family, and they needed him.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am (hopefully!) making up for the longer wait between chapters with a longer update. Thanks, as usual, for your patience!

Annie unfolded the flowered quilt at the foot of Loki’s bed and pulled it up to his shoulders, then settled herself on the bed beside him with her back against the headboard. He lay motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. She smoothed his hair and stroked his forehead. He didn’t stir.

She sighed. Mitchell thought he was okay, and Annie thought he was probably right—Loki had used a _lot_ of his magic that day, of course he was exhausted—but she still worried. She wished he would wake up and talk to her, just to let her know he was all right. No chance of that, though; if being carried up the stairs and wrestled out of his clothes by her and Mitchell hadn’t woken him, she was hard pressed to think of what would. She would just have to wait, and worry.

A chirp from the floor beside the bed made her glance down, and Annie smiled as Elizabeth, followed closely by Philip, leapt lightly onto the bed. Elizabeth paused to nuzzle Annie’s hands, and then she joined her brother, who was in the process of curling up on Loki’s chest. Both cats began to purr loudly.

Annie reached over and scratched behind their ears. “You’re worried about him, too, aren’t you?” she asked. They looked back at her with expressions that seemed strangely knowing. Elizabeth blinked slowly at her.

“I just wish I could tell for sure that he’s all right,” Annie said to the cat. Elizabeth just looked at her with her large green eyes. Annie laughed and scratched her under the chin. As she did, it occurred to her that she _did_ have a way. Elizabeth blinked at her again, as if confirming Annie’s realization, and then she put her head down on her paws and closed her eyes. Philip snuggled closer to her.

Annie stared at the cats for several moments, bemused. Had she imagined that, or had Elizabeth actually communicated with her? She shook her head and turned her attention to Loki. She cleared her mind, as Sykes had taught her, and concentrated until the misty outline of his aura appeared around him.

Loki’s aura was green, the same emerald hue as his magic. Annie was relieved to see it hovering over him, clear and still, but it also seemed fainter than it should be, as if he were not quite there. Reading auras, Annie was learning, was more a matter of intuition than anything else. She had learned to recognize the characteristics that would indicate a threat to her, but she had also learned that if she concentrated hard enough, she could often glean information from an aura without quite knowing how; if she looked long enough, she simply knew things. Loki’s was more difficult to read—maybe because he was not human—but she couldn’t shake the troubling sense that, though Loki’s body was here, _he_ was somewhere else. Somewhere far away, and unable to get back. Not trapped, she thought; more like—lost.

She glanced at the clock: five a.m. The sky was beginning to lighten outside. In a couple more hours, she thought, she would call Agnes. Just to be safe. The witch knew a great deal of healing magic; she would know what to do.

Annie found Loki’s hand under the blankets and clasped it between both of hers. “Come back to us,” she told him. Elizabeth raised her head and gave another slow blink, still purring loudly.

***

Loki wasn’t sure how long he had been walking. For a long time he had floated in darkness—or maybe it hadn’t been any time. There was no sense of time where he had been, and none here, either. He remembered darkness, and then he was here, walking through an endless maze of corridors lined with doors of every shape and color. He did not know why he was here, or where he had come from. But something was drawing him on. There was something he had to find, someplace he had to go. 

Someplace he had to _return to._ He wasn’t sure what it was, but he could feel it pulling at him, like an ache behind his heart. There were people there, waiting for him. 

_Come back to us._ The words were a whisper in his mind. He kept walking. His footsteps echoed in the silence. 

***

Agnes wasted no time when Mitchell ushered her upstairs to Loki’s room. “What happened?” she asked, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it over the foot of the bed as she strode into the tiny room.

Annie stood to make room for her, moving to the small space between the dresser and the wall. Agnes sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. She folded his blankets down and laid the other hand on his chest, listening while Mitchell gave a brief account of the previous night’s activities.

Agnes tsked when he finished. “That was foolish,” she said. “You all could have been killed, or worse.” 

Mitchell shifted uncomfortably and looked at his feet. Annie glanced at him. “It was our risk to take,” she said firmly.

Agnes didn’t say anything, but after a moment she met Annie’s eyes. Her air of disapproval fell away, replaced with understanding. “Yes,” she said after a moment, giving Annie a nod of respect. She turned back to Loki. “Still. I wish you had called us. We may have been able to help.”

Annie ignored the comment. “Can you tell anything?” she asked. “I tried reading his aura and it seemed like . . .” She gestured, hands fluttering. “Like he isn’t there, not completely.” 

“Give me a moment.” Agnes turned back to Loki and closed her eyes. Annie realized with surprise that she could sense power gathering around her. That was new. She filed it away to ask Sykes about later.

Agnes relaxed and sat back on her heels. “You’re right,” she said. “He’s . . . somewhere else. In a dream, but not one he can wake from easily.”

Annie exchanged a worried glance with Mitchell. “What does that mean?” she asked. “Will he be all right?”

“Most likely, yes,” she said. “He must find his way back, but he is strong, and he has a strong attachment to this place.” She looked at both of them in turn and smiled. “To you.”

“We just have to wait, then,” Mitchell said. “How long will it take?”

Agnes shook her head. “I don’t know. More than a day. Less than a week.”

Annie swallowed back a sudden sob that wanted to rise in her throat. A whole week, with him like this. “Can’t you do anything?”

“No more than you can. Keep doing what you have been. Sit with him, talk to him. He may hear you.” She reached up and stroked the two cats still curled up on Loki’s chest. “These two are helping, as well.” Elizabeth, clearly the spokescat, raised her head and meowed. Agnes smiled and scratched under her chin. “Yes, I know,” she said. “We’re very grateful.” Elizabeth gave a dignified blink and put her head back down.

Agnes got to her feet. “I’m sorry I can’t be more help,” she said. “Please let me know when he wakes up.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Mitchell said, knowing that Annie wouldn’t leave Loki. 

***

As he walked, memory began to trickle back to him. He remembered a church, and a dusty underground chamber. He felt a faint memory of anger. A white light, and wind. A frantic flight through the branches of Yggdrasil. And then there was this: the endless corridors, sometimes dim and dingy, other times bright and sterile, and doors and doors and doors, no two the same, all shut tight. 

He knew he was dreaming, but it wasn’t an ordinary dream. He was still far from himself, far from the the place and the people he wanted to return to, but he thought he was getting closer. Some part of him knew which way to go, and he followed it, trusting the pull behind his heart to take him home.

_Come home._

The voice that called to him was familiar, and loved. A face floated into his consciousness, and with it—

_Annie._ Yes. That was her name. With that knowledge came more memories, more names: the magically concealed room in the church with the vampire— _Herrick_. Mitchell and Carl, who had come with him to confront the vampire. George, the fourth member of their family, who had stayed home that night. 

The white light held the form of a man, a creature who called himself Azriel, Angel of Death. Who wanted Annie. 

Loki shuddered and walked faster. He needed to get back; he needed to tell his friends what he had learned.

***

“How is he?” George asked. He had gone to work that morning, reluctant but knowing that there was nothing he could do by staying home. He and Mitchell had overlapping shifts that day, so he had gotten an update when Mitchell arrived.

Annie glanced up as he perched at the foot of Loki’s bed. Loki stirred when the mattress shifted, his brow wrinkled in a frown. Annie shrugged. “He’s getting restless,” she said. She stroked his forehead, but he didn’t relax under touch.

“Do you want me to sit with him for a while?” George asked It was growing dark outside; Annie hadn’t moved from Loki’s side all day. But she shook her head.

George opened his mouth to suggest that she might feel better if she took a walk or did _anything_ else for a little while, other than sit and worry, but before he could, Loki’s phone chimed with a text notification. Annie picked it up from the bedside table.

“It’s from Thor,” she said. She frowned. “Should I tell him . . .?”

“Absolutely,” George said. “I do not want to be on the receiving end of Thor’s anger that we didn’t tell him something happened to his little brother.”

That earned a faint smile from Annie as she typed a response.

Another message chimed a few moments later. _I am ckomign_ , it said.

***

Loki paused for a moment and leaned against the wall. He was tired. His muscles ached from holding himself alert as he walked through the silent corridors, and his head throbbed dully. His magic, he knew, was still depleted. He was asleep, but he was not resting. Still, he thought he was close to finding his way back. His memories were becoming clearer, which suggested he was getting closer to the boundary that separated him from his conscious mind. He could feel his connection more strongly to the waking world. Annie’s voice—he was sure it was her, calling to him—was clearer than before, drawing him on.

But there was something else, as well; something that wanted to keep him here. Every so often, as he walked, he thought he saw a shadow ahead of him, disappearing around a corner, and whatever it was, it drew him, as well. There was something about it that sparked his curiosity.

He peered around the corner and frowned, squinting into the dimness. Far down the hall, a slice of yellow light spilled out onto frayed carpet. One of the doors was open. He started toward it.

Annie’s voice called to him. 

***

“He grows more restless,” Thor said. He had finally succeeded in getting Annie to leave Loki’s side long enough to get some rest herself, but he couldn’t keep her away for very long. He sat on the floor beside the bed, not wanting to crowd his brother.

Annie sat back on the bed at Loki’s feet. Thor was right; Loki was nearly thrashing in his bed, pushing the covers into a heap at his waist. The cats had decamped to the rug beside Thor. They both sat calmly, watching Loki.

“Is that good or bad, do you think?” she asked. Loki’s frown deepened and he made a noise in his throat, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip.

Thor laid a large hand on his brother’s shoulder. Loki remained tense, and seemed to try to shrug it away. “I do not know,” Thor said.

***

Loki tried to hurry, but in the way of dreams, his body seemed to become heavier with each effort to move faster, and the door moved closer with agonizing slowness. When he finally reached it, he was drenched in sweat and short of breath. He took a moment before he entered to calm his breathing. He squared his shoulders and raised himself to his full height, trying to appear calm. In control.

Inside the room was bare and white, and Annie was standing against the far wall, looking frightened. Loki started when he saw her, but it only took a moment for him to perceive that it wasn’t really Annie. It was only an image, an apparition. A poor imitation; the Annie he knew would not cower in fear in the corner. 

Behind him, a voice said, “It will be better for both of you if you tell her to come to me willingly.”

Loki whirled. Azriel stood beside the door, his outstretched hand pushing it closed. “It was difficult to find you,” he said. “I would speak with you.” The Angel of Death looked Loki up and down. His mouth quirked in a smile. “I like this,” he said. “More suited to a God of Mischief.”

Loki looked down at himself, and realized that he had unconsciously clad his dream-self in the Avengers costume Tony Stark had designed for him, complete with the horned helmet, which he suddenly became conscious of on his head. He almost made it vanish, not liking Azriel’s approval, but after a moment he left it. He did not like to react to the angel’s comment, and in truth, it made him feel more solid, more confident, even if the weight of the helmet on his head made the ache at his temples more pronounced. 

He smiled his best God-of-Mischief smile and said, “I fear I did not make the proper impression when we last spoke.”

“Indeed.” Azriel stepped toward him and looked him over once more. The dark shadows of his wings grew as he moved farther from the wall. Loki resisted the urge to back away from him, and instead forced himself to meet the creature’s eyes. “But you are still weak. How much longer do you believe you can protect her?”

Loki bared his teeth. “If we are having this conversation,” he said, “then it must be because you are unable to take her yourself. In which case, would say I am doing a very good job.”

Azriel shrugged and examined his fingernails. “For now,” he agreed, unconcerned. “But my reach is growing. I will have her. I, or one of my agents, will succeed sooner or later.”

“Then why are you trying to enlist my help?” Loki raised an eyebrow. “Surely you know I would refuse.” He gestured. “And you claim not to need it.”

“I am speaking to you because you care for the girl,” Azriel replied, turning his sharp gaze back to Loki. “It will save her a great deal of pain if she comes willingly.” His face twisted into a parody of a smile. “And she will be rewarded.”

Loki’s stomach clenched at the thought of Annie in pain, but he kept his expression calm, disdainful. “And what makes you think I have any say in where she goes, or what she does?” he asked. “Annie is stronger than you think.”

“Not strong enough to resist me,” Azriel said. “I am the Angel of Death. Everyone succumbs to me eventually.” He tilted his head up to look Loki in the eye. “Even you, God of Mischief.”

“You know less of the realms than I would expect, if you believe that.” Loki’s gesture took in the bare room and the endless corridors beyond. “This is not Valhalla.” 

Azriel shrugged. “Do what you will,” he said. “I will have her.”

“You will not.” Loki took a step toward him. He let his right hand fall to his side, and gathered every last scrap of magic he could, forming it. His hand curled into a fist as he took another step. “Don’t think your power over death gives you power over her, Azriel. Annie is more alive than anyone I have ever met. It gives her strength you cannot imagine.”

Azriel sneered. “Annie is dead, and must take her rightful place!” His glanced flicked down to Loki’s hand. Loki raised his arm and hurled the spell he had formed at him. It wasn’t very strong, but should have been enough to stun him.

Azriel laughed and raised his own hand, palm out. The spell rebounded and slammed into Loki hard enough to make him see stars. The force of it drove him back several steps. He stumbled and fell to the floor. His head throbbed, and his body felt suddenly even heavier, as if he were being dragged down by unseen hands. He could still hear Azriel’s laughter echoing in his hears, but it was fading, and Annie’s voice called urgently to him. He struggled to sit up, to reach her.

“Loki! Loki, it’s all right. Loki!”

In the end, it wasn’t her voice but the cold incorporeality of her hands on his face that brought him out of the dream. They cupped his face firmly, holding his head steady. “Loki. Open your eyes and look at me. That’s it.” She smiled at him. “It’s all right.”

He blinked. He was sitting up in his bed in the box room, drenched in sweat and tangled in his blankets. The restraining hands on his shoulders had been preventing him from hitting his head a second time on the low sloping ceiling. “Annie?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said. She smoothed his hair. “It’s all right. You were dreaming.”

He let out a stifled sob and threw his arms around her. “Thank the Norns you’re all right.” He felt her arms wrap around his back and pull him close, the coolness of her form seeping through the blankets between them, making him shiver as sweat dried on his skin. He didn’t care; he clung to her. She stroked his hair and made soothing noises.

When he finally released her, she sat back and eyed him worriedly. “Are you all right? How do you feel?”

“Me?” Loki asked.

A low chuckle came from his left, startling him, until Loki realized, belatedly, that the hands on his shoulders had not belonged to Annie. He glanced to the side and blinked at his brother, kneeling on the floor beside his bed. Loki frowned. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

Annie laughed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “You’ve been asleep for three days. We’ve been worried.”

“I was getting ready to take you to Asgard if you did not wake soon,” Thor added.

Loki sank back against his pillows. Two days. That made this—Saturday? No. Sunday They had gone to the church on Thursday night. He glanced at the clock, and then at the pale square of sky visible from his window. Early Sunday morning. He still felt exhausted.

“I read your aura,” Annie was saying. “And nothing seemed to be wrong, but—”

“We were worried,” Mitchell said from the doorway. He was still in his sleeping clothes, looking disheveled. “You got us back here and then you just collapsed.” He glanced around at them. “I heard you talking,” he explained, and then, to Loki, “How are you feeling?”

“All right, I think,” Loki replied, rubbing his head where he had hit it. His head still throbbed, and his body felt stiff, but there was nothing wrong that rest couldn’t fix. “I dreamed of Azriel,” he said.

Mitchell frowned and scrubbed a hand over his eyes, evidently still waking up himself. “Azriel?”

Loki looked around at the three of them to see that they were all looking at him blankly. He turned back to Mitchell. “Did you not see?”

“I saw something,” Mitchell said. “A shape, only. Carl thought he heard you talking to it.”

“Azriel.” Annie repeated the name, as if tasting it. “Is that it’s name? The—?”

Loki nodded. “He says he is the Angel of Death.” Annie shuddered. 

“That’s one of the traditional names for the Angel of Death,” Mitchell agreed.

Loki nodded. “He claimed others, as well. All death deities. He may be just using the name.” He paused. “Names. But he is very powerful.”

“Did he say why he wants me?”

“He says he wants you to do your duty,” Loki said. He looked down at his hands. “I do not know what that means. But he cannot reach you here. I do not think he can reach very far beyond the church.” As briefly as he could, he recounted the rest of the encounter in the church, and his dream.

“But the dream,” Annie said when he finished. “He could reach you.”

“To talk,” Loki said. “He all but admitted he could not reach you without an agent.” He squeezed her hand, hoping to reassure her. The four of them fell silent for a few moments, thinking.

Thor broke the stillness by getting carefully to his feet, standing hunched over so he didn’t hit his head on the ceiling. “Come,” he said. “Loki is still tired, and, I think, hungry.” He looked questioningly at his brother, who was pleased to discover he still remembered how to smile; and he was, in fact, quite hungry. Thor made his way to the door and edged around Mitchell. “This is no matter to discuss on empty stomachs,” he announced. “I will make pancakes. Annie, perhaps you can help me with some tea?”

Mitchell smiled. “I’ll get George. He worked late, but he’ll be put out if he misses out on Thor’s pancakes.”

***

Over breakfast, Loki recounted the events at the church and his dream a second time for George’s benefit, and Mitchell let him know that Kemp was still being held by the Bristol police, pending a transfer to a psychiatric hospital outside of Bristol.

“Whatever you showed the cops, it must have been really convincing,” Mitchell concluded.

“Insanity seemed to be the best option,” Loki murmured. “He did not need very much help selling it, just to alter the particulars. But I did not expect it to be so effective.”

“That’s good though, isn’t it?” George asked around a mouthful of pancakes. “That means he’s out of our hair.”

Loki nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “It is good.” It might even be a mercy for him to be someplace like that. Perhaps he would come to understand his errors, in time. Probably not, he reflected, but it was a possibility. He hoped for it.

He sat back on the bench along the wall and sipped his tea. It was his second cup, and combined with a large plate of pancakes and sausages, he was beginning to feel more himself—though it would be some time before his magic was fully replenished.

Their talk turned to other things Loki had missed during his two days asleep: Carl had left for Brazil on Saturday, with thanks to them all and apologies for not being able to say farewell to Loki; Mitchell was still avoiding Lucy, to everyone’s disapproval; and Sykes had been able to offer no further insight on the incidents at the church, though Annie was optimistic that with Loki’s more detailed narrative the other ghost would have something to offer. “We have a name,” Annie said. “Perhaps he’ll have heard of Azriel.”

Eventually the five of them retreated the lounge and sprawled on the couches and floor to watch _The Princess Bride_ at Loki’s request and Annie’s enthusiastic agreement. Annie and Mitchell both piled onto the sofa with Loki, who was content to be wedged between them, but George shook his head at their invitation to join them and instead stretched out on the love seat, where he was sound asleep before Wesley left Buttercup to seek his fortune. Thor took the red chair beside the sofa with a chuckle. Loki was aware of his brother watching him with surreptitious (for Thor, anyway) worry, but he did his best to ignore it and give himself over to the distraction of the film and the comfort of having all his friends present, and all right, and the world outside relatively quiet for the time being.

As the credits rolled, Loki stretched and yawned. Annie moved to give him room. “You look like you could go back to bed,” she observed. 

Loki thought about it for a moment. He _did_ feel as though he could sleep, but he also felt restless after so many days of inactivity. Instead he extricated himself from the pile he, Mitchell, and Annie had made on the couch. “Actually, I think I will go for a run,” he said. “I feel like sleeping would just make me even more tired.”

To his left, the red chair creaked as Thor stood up. “Would you mind if I join you?” he asked. “I too feel I could use some exercise.”

Loki grinned at his brother, though he had not missed the flicker of worry in his open face, or the glances he had exchanged with Annie. “If you think you can keep up.”

Still lounging on the couch, Mitchell laughed. “That is a footrace I wouldn’t mind watching,” he said. He extended his legs and crossed his ankles, settling back against the armrest. “Have fun. I’m taking a nap.”

Thor laughed, and followed Loki upstairs to change into running clothes.

***

Thor and Loki wound through Totterdown until they reached the river, and then turned along the path that followed it toward the sea. It felt good to be out of doors and moving; March was edging into April, and there was more than a hint of spring in the air. The sky was overcast, but every so often a hint of sunlight peeked through a gap in the clouds. They ran side by side without talking, edging to the side of the path every so often to make way for bicycle or a dog walker, and nodded hello to fellow runners as they passed them. Loki didn’t often take this route, and never at midday on a Sunday; he preferred to be out in the early mornings and the evenings, but he enjoyed the liveliness of the Sunday afternoon walkers and runners that they shared the path with. Perhaps, he thought, he would come this way more often.

The clouds were beginning to clear in earnest by the time they turned back toward Windsor Terrace. Thor slowed to a walk a few blocks from the pink house at the top of the hill. Loki slowed as well, looking at him curiously. Thor looked troubled, as he had earlier in the day.

“What is it?” Loki asked.

“Your friends are worried about you. As am I.”

Loki looked away. He came to a halt and dropped into a forward fold to stretch the backs of his legs. “I am fine, Thor,” he said to his knees. “It will be some time for my magic to recover, but it is nothing to worry about.”

He straightened in time to see Thor cross his arms over his chest and frown. “It is not your physical well-being we are concerned about, brother. You have spoken of your conversations with the priest, and with this Azriel, in great detail, but . . .” He trailed off. “We can tell you are upset by it, Loki, but you say nothing of how you feel.”

Loki sighed, and resumed walking, slowly. Thor fell in beside him. “I can’t,” he said at last. “With everything that has been happening, I cannot—I cannot burden them. Mitchell nearly died, and Annie is trying to find her way in this world knowing this . . . thing would try to force her to cross over against her will. And George . . .” He trailed off. George, though he was doing his best to contain himself, was _happy_. Nina knew the truth, and she had not left him. If it weren’t for everything else, he would be positively exuberant.

Thor reached over and squeezed Loki’s shoulder gently. “Then burden me, brother,” he said. 

Loki blinked. He had half-expected Thor to scold him; he knew he would receive a face full of water from the spray bottle from any one of his housemates were he to suggest that sharing his fears with them was a burden. He blinked away the tears that suddenly stung his eyes, and looked away again. He wanted to talk to his brother, but still, he hesitated, glancing at him sidelong. It was strange; after all that had changed between them, Loki found he still had trouble admitting fear to his brother. He swallowed hard. Finally he said, “I am very afraid.” They walked in silence for a few moments before he continued. “Azriel, whatever he is, wants Annie, and . . . I do not think there is anything I can do to protect her.” He glanced at his brother. “We’ve spent all this time trying to find answers, but now that we have them, it does not seem to matter. He has placed agents everywhere, to bring Annie over to the other side by force if necessary, and . . .” He gestured helplessly. “It is not a very complicated plan, but it may succeed in time. Annie cannot simply stay in the house and never leave. That is no way for her to live.” He gestured again. “I do not know how to stop it.”

Thor did not answer for a moment. “The answers matter,” he said at last. “She can be prepared for attacks.” He squeezed Loki’s shoulder again. “I know it is difficult,” he said. “But you will find more answers, and they will matter, and you will find a way to stop this.”

Loki reached up and patted his hand. “Thank you.” Thor let his hand fall to his side and they walked on in silence until they reached the pink house.

“Thor,” he ventured, as they approached the door, “I meant what I said before. I do not want to burden the others with how I am feeling.”

Thor surprised him with his deep chuckle. “Loki,” he said, a fond reproof in his voice. “They know. Who do you think put me up to this?”

Loki blinked. “Oh,” he said after a moment, chagrinned. Thor chuckled again. Loki glared at him, then after a moment he relented and huffed a laugh as well.

“I suppose it is foolish of me to think I could hide it,” he admitted. He took a deep breath, growing serious again. “Still,” he said.

“I know,” Thor replied. “It will be all right, brother.”

“I hope so,” Loki murmured.

Annie greeted them at the door with the pink spray bottle in hand. Loki attempted to retreat behind his brother, but Thor pushed him forward with one large hand on his back, and he got a face full of water.

“Don’t do that!” Annie said, while he stood spluttering on the stoop.

Loki wiped the water away from his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Do what?” he asked, trying to make his face innocent. He elbowed Thor in the ribs to stop him laughing.

Annie scowled. “ _You know._ This is happening to all of us. You need to know talking about how you feel doesn’t burden us. Okay?”

Loki sighed, and reached up to wipe away the drops rolling down his temples from his hair. He did know; it was just difficult to remember that sometimes, _not_ talking burdened them more. “Okay,” he said meekly.

“Promise?”

Loki nodded. “Promise. I’ll try,” he amended.

She gave a long suffering sigh. “I suppose that’s the best I can expect.” She smiled and reached for his hand, pulling him over the threshold. “Come on. Are you hungry? George is cooking.” She gazed longingly toward the kitchen. “When George is cooking, I _really_ wish I could eat.”

“Not for my cooking?” Loki asked. He was a passable cook, he knew, but he did not have George’s gifts in the kitchen. He suspected that he would have been a middling Potions student at Hogwarts. Annie wrinkled her nose and laughed at him. Loki took the spray bottle from her and sprayed her in the face; to little effect, except to make her laugh harder.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Remember when this story was Mitchell-focused? So do I. Here is your Mitchell-centric chapter. (More to come. We're finally arriving at some things that I had planned from the start, and thought we'd get to waaay sooner!)
> 
> Happy Monday! Happy New Year! And thanks for reading!

Over the next several days, a tentative calm settled over the house on Windsor Terrace. They didn’t let their guard down—not quite—but by an unspoken agreement, the four housemates cautiously resumed their routines, with only a few additions that bespoke recent events. Loki had taken to shortening his evening run, and afterward George joined him in the garden for hand-to-hand fighting drills. Mitchell joined them, too, for a sparring session with Loki. Mitchell’s combat training was rusty, and piecemeal, picked up here and there as situations demanded, not the result of years—well, centuries—of discipline and practice. Loki didn’t quite have Mitchell’s strength, but he almost always bested him in skill. Their sessions left him sore and tired, though Loki assured him he was improving.

Despite Loki’s protestations that he was fine, Thor insisted on remaining in Bristol for a few days, claiming Avengers business in town. Loki was glad enough to have his brother around that he didn’t protest too strenuously, though he did extract promises of pastry from his brother. Annie, meanwhile, continued her lessons with Sykes, and had taken to practicing her skills around the house, floating mugs of tea to her friends instead of carrying them, or playing fetch with Scamp.

Mitchell, for his part, found it relatively easy to accept the reprieve. He remained cautious, for Annie’s sake, but with Herrick dead and Kemp locked away, and the ache in his chest from the stake wound finally gone, he felt like it might be all right to relax, at least a little, and let his thoughts turn to other things.

Not that those other things were very relaxing. Lucy, for example. He had managed to avoid her since their conversation in the cafeteria, two weeks before. It should have been easier. The hospital employed hundreds of people in a sprawling complex of buildings. It was the whole point of him and George getting jobs there. They could remain anonymous, just two more sets of green scrubs doing the mopping up. They were background noise, part of the scenery, and that was how Mitchell liked it.

But somehow, when he least wanted to see her, she kept turning up. He had to do a surprising amount of skulking about to avoid crossing paths with her, peering around corners and surreptitiously paging through the doctors’ schedule books so he would know when his shifts overlapped with hers. George was his reluctant accomplice, all the while muttering that Mitchell should take his own advice and be honest with her, as he had encouraged George to be honest with Nina. But he did it under his breath, and Mitchell pretended not to hear, not wanting to rehash his reasons for keeping his distance. George knew, and even if he disagreed, he didn’t do more than mutter.

He had an early morning shift on Wednesday, and in the quiet of the hospital corridors he let his mind wander. Annie had been up when he left that morning, making tea in the kitchen while Loki and Thor were out running. Mitchell worried about her, not only because Azriel was still a threat, but also because he worried that she was at a bit of a loose end. Looking after the house and looking after them was all well and good, but she should have something more, Mitchell thought. Meeting Sykes had been good for her, he reflected; not only for what he was teaching her about her powers, but to give her some contact with someone besides the three of them. Maybe she should get a job. The image of Annie working in a pub flashed in his mind, making him smirk as he envisioned pints floating in midair to customers. He shook his head and pushed the matter out of his mind. Annie didn’t seem unhappy; anxious, yes, as they all were, but not unsatisfied with her life—afterlife—whatever. If she was, Mitchell didn’t doubt that she would find a fulfilling way to spend her days.

He pushed his mop along the floor and wondered how Carl was getting on. Mitchell missed him acutely, more than he had expected. They hadn’t spoken in years, despite living in the same city, but having him around these last couple of weeks had reminded Mitchell what lay between them. It was messy and painful, but also— His housemates were his family, yes, but Carl understood him in a way no one else could, both what it was like to try to stay clean, and to fight the darkness in him that wanted him back. He wasn’t sure if they could handle knowing what he had been, _seeing_ it. It was one thing to know that Mitchell had been the most bloodthirsty vampire in Britain, that he had enjoyed it, and another to _see_ him as that person, and still believe he could change. Mitchell’s darkness had always been just a little deeper, and a little closer to the surface, than Carl’s. Carl knew that, had seen it, and loved him despite it. Loved him, and believed he could change. Enough that Mitchell could believe it, too.

He hoped Carl found something good in Brazil.

The sound of the lift interrupted his thoughts. Mitchell picked up his mop and pushed his cart out of the center of the corridor to get out of the way. Only then did he glance up to see Lucy approaching him. He froze, belatedly realizing that her office was off this corridor. He glanced around, but there was nowhere to escape to.

She slowed when she saw him and came to a halt a short distance away. She still had her coat on, a satchel over one shoulder and a cup of coffee in her hand. “Mitchell.” She sounded surprised to see him. Surprised, and pleased.

His throat closed, his chest constricting painfully. He opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times. “Um,” he finally managed. “Hi.” He fidgeted for a moment, glancing around as if the closed office doors could offer him an excuse, then stammered, “I, um. Sorry, I’m just—um.” He didn’t even care how idiotic he sounded, he just wanted to get a way from her and the hope on her face that he was hard pressed not to respond to. He picked up the mop and put it in its bucket, avoiding her gaze. “I’m just going to—” He made a vague gesture and began pushing the custodial cart down the corridor away from her, his mouth dry.

“Mitchell!” she called after him. He came to a halt, tense, but didn’t turn around. He was afraid to look at her, afraid if he did, everything would come spilling out of him. He heard her sigh. “Look,” she began, “I know . . .” She trailed off, hesitating.

The silence stretched for so long that Mitchell turned to look at her. She knew what? How? His palms were sweating in the wool of his gloves. He wondered if his sudden fear showed on his face. 

She hesitated another moment before she said, “Whatever it is you’re trying to protect me from, I wish you’d tell me and let me decide for myself.”

Mitchell barked a laugh and turned away again. “Trust me,” he said, “you don’t.”

“You don’t know that if you don’t tell me.”

Mitchell looked down at his hands on the handle of the cart. He wanted to walk away from her, but something wouldn’t let him. His feet remained rooted to the ground, and his voice caught in his throat. What if—?

He couldn’t. He couldn’t possibly tell her. He barely knew her.

She sighed again, and he heard a jingle of metal as she sorted through her keys for the one to her office. “All right,” she said. She slipped the key into the lock. “Just think about it, okay? I don’t— I want—” She gave an exasperated huff. “I want to help you if you’ll let me, Mitchell.”

Help him? He turned to look at her again, puzzled now, and found her eyes steady on him as she stood with one hand on the doorknob. Help him how? He searched her face, found no clues. She pressed her lips together and turned away.

She had almost disappeared into her office when he blurted, “I’m an addict.”

She froze. After a moment, the door opened wide again and she peered out at him. “What?”

“I have an addiction.” He risked a glance at her face, then turned his attention to his hands, turning the rings around on his fingers. “I—I’m clean. I’ve been clean for a while now, but the last time I was with someone, I—” His voice caught. He swallowed hard and forced himself to go on. “I slipped. I—I hurt her. Badly.” Not the whole truth, but enough. The part that mattered. 

She didn’t answer. He felt her eyes on him, studying him intensely. Mitchell bore it as best he could, trying not to squirm under her gaze. An uneasy laugh bubbled out of him. “I suppose this all makes me seem very attractive.” She still didn’t answer. After a few moments, Mitchell chanced a look up at her. Her expression wasn’t what he’d expected. She didn’t look at him with horror or pity; instead she looked . . . quizzical. As if she were trying to puzzle something out. 

At last she asked, “Is that why you’re a cleaner?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Is that why you’re a cleaner?” Lucy repeated.

“Um.” He thought about it. “I guess? Why on Earth would you ask that?”

She shrugged. “You’re young, you seem smart. You could have a better job, if you wanted one. Did you go to university?”

Mitchell stared at her. And then—he couldn’t help it—he started to laugh. It was Lucy’s turn to look baffled.

“Is that funny?” she asked.

He shook his head, unable to speak for a moment. He pulled his hands through his hair. Finally he managed, “No, it’s just, of all the ways I thought this conversation might go, I wasn’t expecting . . .” He gestured helplessly. “ _careers counseling._ ”

That got a smile and a chuckle out of her. “Do you _like_ being a cleaner?”

He shrugged, relaxing a little. “I don’t _like_ it,” he admitted. “I mean, not in the way you probably like being a doctor.” He shrugged again. “But honestly, I don’t mind. Cleaning up other people’s messes . . . it helps me keep a handle on my own.”

Her nose wrinkled. “I suppose that makes sense,” she said.

Mitchell grimaced. “If you’d seen some of the messes I’ve made, it would.”

She gave him a sad little smile. “We’ve all made messes, Mitchell,” she replied. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“Your addiction. What are you addicted to?”

“Does it matter?”

She thought about it. “I suppose not.”

He looked down at the floor. “When I was using, it was always mixed up with—with my relationships. It’s better for me not to get involved.” He met her eyes, finally, letting her see his regret. “If we do, if I . . . fall off the wagon . . . I’ll hurt you, Lucy. I don’t want to do that.”

“All right,” she said. “But . . . ” She hesitated. “I understand why you don’t want to get involved, but . . . I’d still like to be friends. Or at least,” she added with a hint of a smile, “not have you ducking around corners to avoid me.”

He gave an embarrassed little laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Friends. I’d like that.”

“Good.” They stood there in awkward silence for a few more moments before Lucy said, “Well, then I guess . . .”

“I’ll see you around,” Mitchell finished. “I should, um.” He gestured to the cleaning cart.

“Yeah,” she agreed. She stepped back into her office, letting the door close behind her.

***

Lucy put her back to her office door and leaned against it, finally giving in to the trembling that she had been suppressing.

_I’m an addict._

Mitchell was a vampire. 

_I have an addiction._

It was the only thing that made sense. She clapped both hands over her mouth to stifle the sudden, hysterical laugh that bubbled up in her throat. Of course, other things made sense, too. _Should_ make _more_ sense. Like the simple explanation Mitchell had offered: he was an addict.

But in her world, there was only one thing that could mean. He seemed to be trying to tell her the truth, or something close to it, and the metaphor was wrong if he was trying to tell her he was a werewolf.

His reaction when she asked him if he believed in vampires flashed again in her mind’s eye. She had reasoned that Mitchell had hedged to protect George, and then later that Mitchell was a werewolf, himself—but had that been only because she already knew about George? What evidence did she have? Had she ever seen Mitchell on a full moon?

She sifted through her memories, trying to match up days and moon cycles and night shifts when she had seen Mitchell, and she thought she _had_ seen him, but she couldn’t be sure. She had kept track when Laura was alive, but after her death, she’d tried to put all that behind her. Now the days ran together in her mind. 

She thought suddenly about his recent admittance to the hospital. A nurse on duty that night had sworn up and down that Mitchell had been brought in with a stab wound to the heart, yet miraculously, his friends had checked him out the next day. The nurse later claimed she had been mistaken, but now Lucy wondered. Even a shallow stab wound to the chest should have kept him out of work for much longer. 

The more she thought about it, the more sense it made. The way he seemed to always wear sunglasses outside, even on cloudy days; how pale is skin was; how he wore gloves all the time, as if his hands were always cold. Had she noticed his breath mist when they sat outside together? She couldn’t remember noticing anything strange, but then, they had been smoking. 

Slowly, she shrugged out of her coat and hung it on the hook. She made her way over to her desk, trying to sort out what what she knew about vampires. Not very much; she knew they were a brutal lot, driven by their desire for blood. She knew sunlight wasn’t fatal to them, though stakes to the heart were. And she knew that vampires had no love for werewolves, which made Mitchell . . . strange. Well. Strang _er_. A vampire who was flatmates with a werewolf, the two of them—what? Trying to be human?

Mitchell wasn’t what she had expected a vampire to be. Prickly, yes, but with a kindness about him. She couldn’t imagine him being vicious. 

And he was _clean._

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it gave her hope. Her mind spun with possibilities that she wished, painfully, her sister had lived to see.

***

Mitchell stood in the corridor outside Lucy’s office for several moments after she disappeared inside, taking deep breaths to try to still his racing thoughts. Did she take his words at face value? Or did she suspect something more? She had, after all, asked him about vampires that day in the courtyard, when Dan turned up in the morgue. It might have been idle conversation, but Mitchell had learned not to trust coincidence.

Could he trust her? And what did she mean, she wanted to help him?

He shook his head and started pushing his cart toward the elevator. He could drive himself crazy, thinking in circles like that, and he had more urgent matters to focus on. Whatever Lucy might know or suspect, she seemed content to play her cards close to the vest for the time being, and that suited Mitchell just fine. Unless he wanted to call her out, all that remained for Mitchell was to stay vigilant—and he had become good at that, these past weeks, when it seemed like new threats were appearing daily. No need to invite more trouble into their lives. It seemed to have a way of finding them without any help.

He finished the floors along the corridors where the doctors had their private offices and worked his way back toward the cafeteria to meet George, who would be coming in for his shift. He hoped George would remember to get him one of the good scones from the coffee truck on his way in. The hospital caf’s baked goods were just this side of depressing.

But in the doorway to the cafeteria all thoughts of scones—and Lucy—fled from his mind. George wasn’t there yet, and at the only occupied table sat a familiar figure, lost in her own thoughts. He came up short just inside and stared. Her hair was longer and lighter, her face lined, but he would know her anywhere from the way she bent her head, the tilt of her shoulders, her slightly furrowed brow.

In a daze, he went to the counter and ordered two coffees, then crossed to her table and slid one across to her. “Black coffee, no sugar, just a splash of cold water from the tap,” he recited. As he spoke, her gaze followed his arm pushing the cup and saucer across the table to his face. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes growing large and then crinkling at the corners into an astonished smile. He grinned back. “Hello, Josie.”

“My God,” she breathed. She covered her mouth with a hand, then let it drop back down to the table. “Is it really you?” Her eyes traveled over his features. She shook her head wonderingly. “You haven’t changed.”

“Neither have you.”

“Liar,” she said, and then shook her head and laughed. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here. I work here.” He gestured to his blue scrubs.

Her eyebrows climbed. “What, are you a nurse?” She leaned across the table, mischief in her eyes. “No. You’re a phlebotomist.”

He laughed. “I’m a cleaner.”

“A cleaner!” She still had the same clear, bell-like laugh. He could listen to her laugh all day. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”

He laughed, too. “It’s not so bad. What about you? What are you doing here?” A sudden, terrible thought occurred to him. “Are you sick?”

“Oh, no.” She waved her hand in dismissal and pulled her coffee closer to her. “Just in for some routine tests.” She quirked a smile at him. “It’s what happens when people get old.”

Relieved, he smiled back. “You’re not old.” After a moment he added, “And in Bristol? What are you doing here?”

“We moved here after my husband retired.”

That brought a delighted grin to his face, though it came with a pang, as well. “You’re married?”

“Not anymore.” She glanced away. “He died, a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What about you?”

“Nah.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Just me. As ever.”

“All alone?”

“No.” He smiled again. “I have a house I share with some friends.” He sat back and sipped his coffee. “It’s good,” he added after a moment. “It’s . . . family.”

“Are they. . .” She glanced around, then turned back toward him and lowered her voice. “Like you?”

“They’re not vampires,” he answered quietly. “But they’re—not human, either.”

“And you’re—?”

“Clean? Yeah. Mostly,” he amended, thinking of Lauren. He gave her another smile, strained this time. “I’m doing my best.”

“Your friends. They help?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Her smile returned. “Good.” She reached across the table for him, and he took her hand. “I’m glad you’re not alone.”

“Me, too.” They sat like that for a few moments, and then Mitchell said, impulsively, “You should meet them. Come for dinner tonight.”

She blinked. “Tonight?” she repeated.

“If you’re not busy?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’m not, I just—” She looked away, seeming to withdraw. “I don’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be. Really,” he insisted. “Besides, I think Th—” He broke off just in time, suddenly not wanting to spoil the surprise for her of meeting the God of Thunder _and_ the God of Mischief. “My housemate’s brother is in town, and he makes really good pastry.”

That startled another laugh out of her, and whatever had closed off in her face seemed to withdraw. She squeezed his hand. “Oh, well, how can I turn down pastry?”

“You’ll come, then?”

“Of course I’ll come.” She squeezed his hand again, then released him and sat back. “I’d love to meet your friends.” She finished her coffee and began to pull her coat on. “But for right now, I really should get going. I’m supposed to meet my daughter.”

“You have a daughter?” Mitchell’s face lit, though another pang squeezed at his heart, as he thought of the life he hadn’t been able to give her. He stood to help her with her coat.

“Yes. And you’re not to go near her,” Josie replied with a mischievous smile. She leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’ll see you tonight,” she said, and was gone.

He was still standing there, dazed, when George sat down at the now-empty table and pushed a white paper bag across to him. “They only had raisin,” he said. He noted Mitchell’s expression, and turned to follow his gaze to Josie’s retreating form. “Friend of yours?” he asked.

Mitchell carefully lowered himself back into his seat and pulled the bag closer. The scone inside was still warm. “Yeah,” he said. “We used to date.” George raised an eyebrow, and Mitchell clarified, “In the sixties.”

“In the—” George craned around to look after a gain, then turned back to Mitchell. “Is she a—?”

Mitchell shook his head. 

George studied him for a moment as he put the pieces together. “You mean—? Was that—?”

“Yeah.” Mitchell took a bite of his scone. “That was Josie.”

***

A week. A week since that disastrous interview with the young magician at the police station, whose lies and trickery had landed him here, locked up among madmen. Loki. Fitting that he should have the name of the trickster god. Kemp sat in the hard molded plastic chair in the day room and plotted his revenge.

A week. A week had passed, and no word from the brotherhood, no assurances that his release was planned, not even a sigil covertly flashed by a nurse or an orderly to indicate he was not forgotten. All was silence. Even his angel seemed to have abandoned him.

Kemp sat in his chair and thought of Job, and tried not to despair.

All around him, his fellow inmates sat alone or in pairs, playing cards or staring off into space in a drugged stupor. Kemp supposed he looked like one of the latter, though he had been diligently palming his pills. It suited him to fade into the background. He counseled patience, and waited. Help would come. His Brothers would not leave him here.

At length, he found his attention drawn to another one of the inmates, a young man with unruly hair and wild eyes. Kemp had noticed him before, because of his frequent outbursts. He paced, startled at nothing, and twice since Kemp had been there had been dragged screaming from the day room. Today he seemed subdued. He sat in a chair a few feet down from Kemp, hugging his knees to his chest and mumbling to himself. Occasionally he would bury his face in his knees and tug at handfuls of his hair, his mumbling growing more urgent, giving way to a high-pitched whine. Kemp watched him for a long time, trying to decipher his ramblings, but the words remained indistinct. At last Kemp gave in to his curiosity and moved to the seat next to him. He didn’t know why, but he felt drawn to this terrified young man.

“She said she can find me,” the young man said, as soon as he sat down. “She said—she said they know, when I’m sleeping, when I’m awake . . .” He trailed off and grasped at a handful of his hair.

“Oh?” Kemp asked. “Who is that?” 

“My fiancée.” The young man glanced at him and then quickly around the room. “They don’t believe me. They think I’m crazy. With guilt. But I know!” He laughed, a series of hysterical little pants. “I know it’s real.”

“What is?”

The young man leaned in and whispered. “She’s dead.” He giggled. “I killed her! But she’s still here!”

Kemp studied the young man’s face. “Here?” he asked, gesturing to indicate the asylum.

“No, in out house.”

“Ah. She is a ghost?” Kemp tried to keep his voice steady. Could it be—? Impossible. But then . . . few things in his experience were impossible.

He nodded. “She lives there with a—with a—” He began to giggle again. “With a vampire! And a werewolf! And a—a—a sorcerer!” He clapped a hand over his mouth, then gasped out, “She said they would hunt me to the ends of the Earth! That’s why I’m here.” He looked around the room, wild-eyed, and hopped up on to his toes so he was squatting on the seat of his chair. He craned to look out the window behind him, through glass reinforced with wire mesh and metal bars on the outside. “I’m just—I’m not sure—Do you think it’s safe?” He turned an earnest gaze on Kemp, who met his eyes.

“I believe it is safe,” he said, patting the young man’s shoulder. He tried to make his voice calm and reassuring, though his heart was racing. Surely this could not be a coincidence. “What is your name?” he asked.

“Owen.” Kemp continued to pat his shoulder, and eventually Owen seated himself again.

“And your fiancée?”

“She’s a ghost,” Owen whispered, growing agitated again.

“Yes,” Kemp agreed. He took Owen’s shoulder in a firm grip. “Tell me her name,” he ordered.

Owen seemed to calm under Kemp’s touch. “Annie,” he said. “Annie Sawyer.”

Kemp let out a breath, sitting back in his chair, releasing him. No coincidence. He smiled. It seemed God had a plan after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: A dinner party! Feels!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get two conflicting accounts of how Mitchell and Josie met in canon. I've embellished Josie and Mitchell's reminiscences in the s1 episodes where she appears. For the purposes of this fic, the events of the flashback episode with Josie in s2 didn't happen. (Oh, I have so many problems with that episode.)
> 
> You might want some tissues for this chapter. Assuming I did my job right.

By the time Josie rang the bell at the pink house that evening, Annie was practically beside herself with excitement. “I’ll get it!” she cried, racing Mitchell to the door.

“Annie!” Mitchell skidded to a halt behind her in the entryway, laughing. “Relax.”

Annie didn’t want to relax. Too few really good things had happened recently, or even just fun things, everything tainted by Kemp and Azriel and Herrick. She loved meeting new people, even more when they were important to her friends. She wanted to wring every ounce of enjoyment out of tonight as she could. She pulled the door open and grinned at the woman on the stoop. “Hello!” Annie ushered her inside, her enthusiasm bubbling out of her in fluttering gestures and questions. “We’re so glad you could come! Did you find the house all right? Here, let me take your coat.”

“Josie, this is Annie,” Mitchell introduced her with a laugh when he could get a word in edgewise. He closed the door behind her. “Annie, Josie.”

“It so lovely to meet you!” Annie said, shaking her hand. If Josie noticed that she felt cold and insubstantial, she didn’t give any indication, which made Annie like her immediately. “Mitchell’s told us all about you.”

“He has?” Josie raised an eyebrow and looked at Mitchell, who was frowning at Annie in confusion.

Annie laughed. “Well, no, actually,” she admitted, a little chagrinned. “It just seems like something you’re supposed to say to people.”

Josie smiled, disarmed by Annie’s honesty. “Well, good,” she said. She leaned in conspiratorially and said, “I don’t like to think he’s spreading stories about me.”

“I would never!” Mitchell said with mock indignation. He hung Josie’s coat on a hook and then made more introductions as George and Nina joined them from the kitchen, and then Loki came down the stairs. 

When he introduced Loki, Josie studied him for several long moments, her brow furrowed, and then her face lit. “Oh, I know you!” Loki looked confused. “I saw you on television,” she clarified. “In London! You’re one of the Avengers!” She turned and gave Mitchell a punch on the shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you live with one of the Avengers,” she hissed. And then, after another moment, she asked, “ _How on Earth_ did you wind up with a superhero for a housemate?”

Mitchell’s eyes twinkled. “He sort of landed on our doorstep one day,” he said.

“The rubbish bins, actually,” Annie corrected him, but Mitchell was still watching Josie’s reaction with obvious delight.

“I didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” he said. Josie hit him again.

“I’m not really,” Loki interjected, looking embarrassed at the recognition, though also, Annie thought, pleased. “I am more of a . . . consultant. Not a hero.”

Annie rolled her eyes. Before she could say anything, though, Thor came down the stairs behind Loki, rumbling, “Do not be silly, brother. Of course you are an Avenger. And a hero.”

Josie’s mouth dropped open. She watched wide-eyed as he edged past his brother into the crowded entryway, took her hand, and gallantly bowed over it. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he told her.

Josie stammered a reply, then turned back to Mitchell and hit him again. Mitchell only laughed harder. “Your housemate’s brother makes pastry!” she mocked. “You neglected to mention the most important part!”

“Oh, that’s definitely the most important part,” George said. “Wait until you taste his pie.” He ducked back into the kitchen, followed by Nina and then the others, leaving Mitchell and Josie in the entryway. Josie watched them all go, looking bemused while Mitchell struggled to get control of his laughter.

“I’m not sure what I should say to that,” she said.

Mitchell put an arm around her, guiding her toward the kitchen with everyone else. “Say you’ll come in and have a glass of wine,” he suggested. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yes,” Josie agreed. “Wine. I think I would like a glass of wine.”

Loki had done something to the house’s kitchen so that when they all crowded in—Loki, Thor, Annie, George, Nina, Mitchell, and Josie—there was still plenty of space for everyone to sit comfortably around the table. “Just a little dimensional fold,” he said, as he placed the last dish on the table and took his seat. It had plainly affected the table as well, as there was plenty of space for two roast chickens, bowls of vegetables and potatoes, and a basket of rolls. Thor’s pies were cooling on the counter behind them.

“You know, you could do this to your room,” Mitchell said as they all began passing the food around the table. He took the bowl of potatoes from Josie and served himself.

Loki frowned in thought. “It would take more complicated spell-work to make it last for more than a few hours,” he said. “Besides, I like my room the way it is.”

“It’s cozy,” Annie agreed.

“You would know,” Mitchell said, then dodged Annie’s kick under the table with a laugh. He passed the dish to Annie to pass on. As she did, Josie seemed to notice for the first time that Annie didn’t have a plate in front of her.

“Aren’t you going to join us?” she asked.

“Oh.” Annie’s hands fluttered nervously. She glanced at Mitchell, not realizing he hadn’t told her. He grimaced.

“I . . . wasn’t specific,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Josie asked.

“No!” Annie said quickly. She gestured for the others to back to passing the food around. “No, not at all, I just thought Mitchell had told you.” She shrugged. “I’m a ghost. I can’t eat.” The uncomfortable pause stretched on for another moment, until Annie gestured again, exclaiming, “It’s fine! It’s fine, stop acting weird, all of you.”

As the others resumed serving themselves, Annie turned to Josie and asked, “So what do you do? And more importantly,” she added with a wicked gleam in her eye, “how did you meet Mitchell?”

Mitchell turned to Josie with interest. “I never thought to ask,” he said. “What have you been doing all these years?”

“I opened a dance school,” Josie said.

Mitchell grinned. “You talked about doing that. When we met. You said that was your dream.”

She laughed. “Not so glamorous, in the end,” she admitted. “My daughter does most of the work, these days, but I’m still running the advanced class.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mitchell said. He turned to the others. “The first time I saw Josie, she was dancing Swan Lake.”

“As part of the corps,” she said quickly. “I was never a principal dancer.”

“Their mistake,” Mitchell said. “You should have been.”

She laughed. “Ever my gallant defender, Mitchell.”

“So that’s how you met?” Annie asked. She took the bowl of Brussels sprouts that Loki passed to her and handed to Thor, seated on her other side. “At the ballet? I wouldn’t have expected that of you, Mitchell.”

“Carl dragged me along,” he admitted. “He was madly in love with the dancer playing Siegfried, and absolutely terrified to go near him. Josie and I met at a party after.”

Josie smiled, her eyes faraway. “I remember. My knees were like spaghetti.”

Mitchell turned to her. “You sat there with your cigarette, trying to look all sophisticated.” His expression had gone distant, too, his voice fond.

Josie laughed. “I spent ten minutes lighting the wrong end. You made me so nervous!”

That made Annie laugh, too. “So he was a charmer back then, too.”

“I’ve always been a charmer,” Mitchell said. He turned to Josie. “We came to Bristol,” he went on, as if the memory had just come to him. “One weekend. Do you remember? The Clifton Hotel?”

Josie’s face lit. “Yes! Mr. and Mrs. _McCartney_?!”

George snorted. Annie fell back against her chair laughing, as did Nina. “Oh, Mitchell,” Annie said. “Seriously?”

“It was the sixties!” he replied, defensive. “Beatlemania. It was the first name I could think of.”

Annie glanced at Thor and Loki. Loki, at least, knew who the Beatles were, but judging by his expression he didn’t quite get the joke. “It would be like checking into a hotel as . . .” She searched for a reference he would know. “Mr. and Mrs. Stark.”

“I understand,” he said. “But why the false names?” he asked Mitchell.

Josie grinned. “In those days, it was positively scandalous for a woman to check into a hotel with a man if you weren’t married to him.”

“Most hotels wouldn’t even let you _in_ ” Mitchell added. “Only the seediest. If we wanted to stay someplace nice, we had to be married.” 

Loki shook his head and exchanged a look with his brother that Annie interpreted as agreement that humans could be very strange indeed.

“Why Bristol, though?” Nina wanted to know. “It’s not like it’s very exciting.”

Mitchell shrugged. “It was just someplace to go. The train tickets were cheap. And it’s not like it mattered.” There was a gleam in his eye as he went on. “We only left the hotel to buy more cigarettes and chocolate.”

“Oh, I think that’s quite enough detail.” Josie interrupted, patting Mitchell’s hand. “And quite enough about me.” She turned to Loki. “Tell me, what kind of consultant do the Avengers need?”

“Oh.” Loki waved a hand in dismissal. “I just help out sometimes when there is magic involved.”

Thor snorted. “If not for Loki, we would have fallen to HYDRA,” he said, and launched into the story of the events leading up to the battle in London, two summers before. Loki listened to Thor’s account in silence for a few minutes. He didn’t remember very much of the beginning of that summer, having been incapacitated by the magic-draining device stolen from Tony Stark. It was strange, how he had always yearned for his brother’s regard, but when Thor spoke of him with such praise, it made him feel uncomfortable—especially when it seemed his brother was exaggerating Loki’s contribution, and downplaying his own part. At his first opportunity, he cut in to remind his brother that he had played no small part in the defeat of HYRDA himself, and soon the brothers were trading the narrative back and forth with increasing embellishment, and then moved on to telling about their battle with Mordred, and after that, at Annie’s prompting, several stories about their boyhood antics that left everyone with tears of laughter streaming down their faces. 

“So you’re a wizard,” Josie said, when the stories had trailed off.

“I prefer ‘sorcerer.’” Loki grinned. “‘Wizard’ makes me feel like I have to grow a long gray beard and start wearing a pointy hat.”

Josie laughed, and then hesitated. “I hope it isn’t rude to ask, but . . . I’ve never seen real magic before. Could you . . .?” She gestured.

Thor’s expression took on a worried cast, “I do not think—” he began.

“Oh, I think I can manage something,” Loki said. He considered for a moment, and then reached into the dimensional space where he sometimes tucked things away, and produced a cat toy. (Loki found it handy to have a few accessible cat toys at all times.) He tossed the small plastic ball in the air, its bell jingling, and it split in two. He caught them and began juggling one-handed, standing up and stepping away from the table as he did so. The two split into three, and then six. Loki made them change colors in the air as he tossed them back and forth. He lit them with the green fire of his magic, eliciting a soft “oooh” from Josie. They grew bigger, and when the fire disappeared, he was juggling three large goldfish bowls, using just enough magic to keep the water from splashing over the top of them. He tossed them high, enveloping them in green fire again, and then, one by one, six small plastic balls with bells inside fell into his hand. He opened it to show the single toy he had taken out of the air, and bowed to his friends’ applause.

He took a moment to assess his reserves, and decided he had enough magic for one more trick—real magic, as Josie had requested. As he straightened, his clothes suddenly fell empty to the ground and Loki, in the shape of a small green parakeet, flew around the kitchen a few times and then landed on Josie’s shoulder and preened his feathers.

Thor made a sound of fond exasperation. “Now you are showing off, brother,” he said. He gave Josie a long-suffering look. “My brother is a showoff.”

“So I see,” Josie laughed.

“You’re the one who asked him to show us some magic,” Mitchell pointed out.

“Oh, well.” Josie reached up and stroked Loki’s crest. “If I could do real magic, I’d be a showoff, too.”

Loki gave a pleased trill, then hopped up onto Thor’s proffered hand and allowed him to take him upstairs.

“Does he do that often?” Josie asked.

“I’ve never seen him do a parakeet before,” Mitchell said. “But he likes birds.”

“Usually an owl, or a sparrow,” Annie said. 

“And Thor turned into a cat once,” George giggled, and began to tell the story of Thor’s transformation into “Thunder”—much to Nina’s interest, who hadn’t known about the magical goings-on in their household at the time. They were all in gales of laughter by the time Thor and Loki returned.

Mitchell got himself under enough control when they came in the kitchen to say, “Loki, where’s that cat toy you were juggling with?”

Loki, looking puzzled, produced it from the air. “Why?”

Mitchell’s lips twitched. “I just thought—Thor might want to play with it.” He dissolved into giggles again, the others close behind.

Loki grinned and tossed it to his brother, who snatched the plastic ball out of the air with mock annoyance and put it in his pocket. “How about some pie?” Thor asked.

It was, Annie reflected as she watched her friends dig into slices of apple pie topped with ice cream, the best evening she had had in a long time, but there was something . . . off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She let her eyes unfocus and tried to taste the air, as Sykes had taught her. It wasn’t anything evil, or threatening, just something not-quite-right. Something ever so slightly out of place. 

Loki brought her back into the present with a gentle touch on her arm. “Is something wrong?” he asked her in a low voice. Annie gave herself a shake, smiled, and assured him she was fine. He looked skeptical, but seemed to understand her unspoken assurance that she would explain later.

They had long since finished their pie and were still talking and laughing when Josie began to yawn, and said she ought to call a cab and make her way home. “I haven’t been out this late in ages,” she told them.

“I’ll take you,” Mitchell offered, getting up, but Josie waved him away.

“I’ll call a cab,” she said, and wouldn’t hear his protests. “I insist.” She smiled. “It’s been lovely. You don’t need to drive me home.”

Annie and Mitchell walked her to the door. As Josie stepped out into the night, Annie saw what had been obscured in the warmth of the kitchen. Her heart sank as she saw Josie’s aura clearly for the first time, wispy and clouded and trailing off of her in bits. She watched her cross to where the cab was waiting, her heart aching for Josie and for Mitchell. “She’s dying.”

Beside her, she felt Mitchell go still. She glanced at him, saw his face had gone stiff with shock. “What?” he choked out.

“I—” Her voice stuck in her throat. She had assumed he knew.

He turned to her, his eyes blazing. “Annie, what did you see?”

She licked her lips. Outside, the cab door slammed and the engine revved. Mitchell took hold of her shoulders. “ _What did you see, Annie?_ ”

“I—her aura,” she stammered. “I don’t know, exactly, I just saw—it’s cloudy, and bits of it are trailing off. I’m sorry, Mitchell. I didn’t know—”

But he was gone, running out the door and into the night.

***

Mitchell’s feet pounded on the damp pavement as he tore down the street after Josie’s cab. To anyone looking out their window he would have looked like nothing more than a blur, splashing through puddles from the day’s rain. He caught up with the car and pounded on the boot, startling the driver to a stop. Mitchell pulled open the door, breathless. “Let me drive you home,” he said, leaning down to look inside. As soon as she saw his face, pale and pleading, she understood that he knew. “Please, Josie.” She nodded, and gathered her things.

Neither of them spoke until Mitchell pulled up in front of her house. “What is it?” he asked finally. “What do you have?”

“Lung cancer.”

He looked at her, limned in the golden light from the streetlamp. It had begun raining again on the drive over, and it drummed quietly on the roof. Droplets of water rolled down the window behind her. “How bad?”

She sighed. “Let’s just say I won’t be starting any long books.”

Mitchell’s eyes stung. He shut them tight, but his voice still broke when he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want to ruin it,” she replied, giving him a sad smile. She reached up and cupped his cheek. “Come on,” she said. “Come inside.”

He followed her in numbly, let her take his coat and guide him to the sofa. The room was bright and cozy, decorated with posters from her ballet school and impressionist prints. It suited her, Mitchell thought. He picked up a photograph from the side table, a formal portrait of a young woman, and studied it while she went to the kitchen. He turned it toward her when she sat down beside him and placed a tray with tea things on the coffee table. “Is this your daughter?”

She smiled, taking the photo from him. “Yes. Joanna.”

“She looks just like you.”

Josie laughed, her fingers tracing over the glass. “It’s funny, sometimes, looking at her. It’s like looking in a mirror. More than looking in an actual mirror.” She laughed. “I don’t recognize myself.” She was silent for a moment, looking at the photo. Then she set it aside, turning her gaze to him. “And you.” Her eyes roamed over his face. “Look at you. Like a photograph.”

He looked down at his hands. “Can’t they do anything?”

She shook her head. “They already have. I’d been in remission for ten years. When it came back it was . . . very aggressive.”

Mitchell clasped both hands around his mug, trying to take the heat in through his skin. He looked at her and saw what he hadn’t been allowing himself to see: the dark circles under her eyes, the sallow cast to her skin. She looked sick. She looked like she was dying. And there was nothing anyone could do.

No, he thought. There was nothing her _doctors_ could do. “Josie,” he began. His voice trembled. “There is something. I could—I could make you like me. You wouldn’t be sick anymore, you’d—”

“Mitchell.” The sternness of her tone startled him. “Do you really think that’s what I want?”

He swallowed hard. He thought suddenly of Bernie, of what his mother might have done had he offered her this choice. Would she have been strong enough to refuse him? He shook his head, closing his eyes against the tears that were finally overflowing.

He heard her sigh again, heard the tears in her voice as she murmured, “Oh, my love.” She took the mug out of his hands and set it aside, and gathered him close. He held on to her, breathing in her warmth and her familiar scent while she stroked his hair.

“You saved me,” he finally croaked, pulling away to look at her.

“No, Mitchell.” She smiled fondly at him and reached up to tuck his hair behind his ear. “You saved yourself. I was just there.”

He shook his head, his vision going blurry again. He let her pull him close again, settling so he lay with his head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Of course you could,” she replied, running her hands through his hair rhythmically, soothing. “You did. You were clean when I met you, remember?”

“Barely. And I had Carl.”

“So you had help. It doesn’t mean you need someone to save you.”

He was silent for several long moments, fighting back tears. “I’d do it, if you asked me to.”

“I know.” She drew back so she could look at him. “But I won’t ask. Death isn’t always the unwelcome guest you think it is, Mitchell,” she said gently. “There comes a time when you can feel the party winding down around you. I’m tired.” She wiped his tears away with her fingers. “Time is a kind friend. He makes us all old.”

“Not me.”

“Even you, my love.” She stroked the skin around his eyes, his lips. “It just doesn’t show as much.”

He swallowed back more tears and tried to smile back, but his mouth pulled down and he felt more tears welling up in his throat.

She caressed his face and pulled him close again. “It’s all right, Mitchell. I’ve had a good life.”

He rested his head in the hollow of her shoulder. “Tell me about it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

She chuckled. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

“Your husband. How did you meet him?”

“He was a musician.” He heard the smile in her voice as she went on, “He played oboe in the the orchestra for the dance company I was with when I moved back to London.” She laughed. “We made quite a pair, two starving artists. But we made it work.” She fell silent, one hand still stroking his hair. He let himself be lulled by it, by the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. At length she said, “I though you’d hate me, you know.”

“Hate you?” Mitchell pulled away and sat up so he could look at her. “Why?”

“For wanting to leave. For wanting . . .” She trailed off.

“A normal life?” Mitchell asked. She shrugged. “I never expected you to stay with me, Josie. I knew I couldn’t give you the things you wanted.”

She shook her head. “That almost made it worse. It made me wish I could have had a normal life with you.”

Mitchell couldn’t help his sudden grin. “Did your husband know he was your second choice?”

Her lips pulled into a smile. “He knew there had been someone else. He thought you were dead.”

That made him laugh in earnest. “He was right,” he pointed out, making Josie laugh as well. He took her hands in both of his. “Tell me. Were you happy?”

“I was,” she said.

“Good.”

“And you, my love?” She searched his face. “Have you been happy?”

He dropped his gaze to their linked hands, thinking back. “Not always,” he said. “For a long time, not at all. But recently—the last few years—yeah.” As he said it, he realized it was true. “Since I met George and we moved into the house with Annie, and then Loki . . . sort of fell into our lives.”

“You’ll have to tell me that story,” Josie murmured.

He smiled, thinking about the house, full of his friends and animals and laughter. “I’ve got all these people in my life now, and . . . yeah.” He felt wonder as he said, “I’m happy.”

***

When Loki came downstairs with Thor to go running the next morning, Annie was in the lounge, curled up in the red chair with Scamp and looking miserable. One look told him she had been there all night. He glanced at his brother and indicated he should go without him. Thor gave Annie a worried glance, then nodded and went ahead, leaving Loki alone with her. He went into the lounge and sat on the corner of the sofa closest to her.

“Mitchell came home a little while ago,” she said, without looking at him. “I don’t think he saw me. He just went up to his room. He looked . . .” She trailed off.

Loki waited a moment to see if she would continue, and then said, gently, “You didn’t do anything wrong, Annie.”

“I know.” She sighed. “I just . . . He shouldn’t have had to hear it from me. Like that.”

Elizabeth uncurled herself from where she had been sleeping on the other end of the sofa and sauntered over to Loki, nuzzling his hand. He scratched her ears. “Perhaps it is better that he did,” he said after a moment.

Annie looked at him curiously.

Loki hesitated, choosing his words carefully. Then he said, “I am sure Josie was struggling with how and when to tell him. Perhaps it is better that you did it for her.”

Annie looked skeptical. “Maybe,” she said. She looked down at Scamp, who stretched her shaggy head up and licked Annie’s cheek, making her smile briefly. “Will you go talk to him? Make sure he’s okay?”

“Of course.” Loki had been planning to do just that. He didn’t get up right away, though. “I do not think he is angry with you, Annie.”

“No,” she agreed. “I don’t think so, either, I just think . . . He might rather talk to you than me right now.”

Loki frowned, unsure what she meant by that, but he decided not to argue. Upstairs, he paused outside Mitchell’s closed door and listened for a moment. He didn’t hear anything, but he doubted Mitchell was asleep. He knocked lightly, waited another moment, and then pushed the door open.

Mitchell didn’t look up when he came in. He sat on the floor, his back against his bed and his forearms resting on his knees. In his hands he held a clear glass sphere on a dark wooden base. Inside the sphere was a model of the Eiffel Tower in a clear liquid with little white specks that were meant to mimic snow. He shook it, making the confetti inside swirl, and then rested it on his knee and watched it settle.

“I told Annie once that time was like one of these things,” Mitchell said, when Loki sat down beside him. He shook it again. “Things move and shift. Every so often things go all mad, and then they settle again.” He watched the snow fall around the model in the glass. “And there you are in the middle of it.”

“Unchanging,” Loki said quietly.

“Alone,” Mitchell said.

Loki winced. He watched him, thinking what it must be like for Mitchell. Loki was almost unthinkably old for most humans to understand, but Mitchell had already watched two whole generations wither and die up close, while Loki’s world had crawled along, watching from a distance. In just a few short years on Midgard, Loki felt the whirlwind of time buffeting him, making everything around him feel frantic and heartbreakingly brief. What would a century be like?

“We went to Paris,” Mitchell went on, his voice soft. He shook the sphere again and held it up to the early morning light coming in through the windows. “I got this for her. She kept it all these years. She said she can’t take it with her so . . . I should have it.” His hand suddenly spasmed, and he drew his arm back as if he was getting ready to throw it.

Loki reacted quickly, catching Mitchell’s wrist and taking the sphere from him before he could do something he would regret. Mitchell made an anguished sound in his throat. He struggled in Loki’s grip for a moment and then went limp, falling back against the bed. Loki let his arm go.

“They’re just so . . . fragile,” Mitchell said. He looked at Loki, his eyes full of tears. “And there’s nothing—” He broke off, the tears spilling down his cheeks. “Nothing—nothing we can do.”

“I know,” Loki said softly. His throat ached. He thought of George, and Nina. He thought of his brother and Jane Foster. Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov, Agent Coulson . . . All their human friends. Of Annie. He turned the sphere in his hands over and then shook it himself. It was an apt metaphor, he thought, watching the snow swirl around in the glass. “But you’re not alone in the center anymore,” he said after a few moments.

Mitchell raised his eyes to his, questioning.

“I am there with you,” Loki said. “And my brother.”

Mitchell pressed his lips together, trying to smile. “Sometimes I forget.” His eyes fell to the glass sphere in Loki’s hands. “Thank you,” he said. He reached out and took it from him, cradling it gently in his hands. “For not letting me break it.” 

Loki squeezed his shoulder in acknowledgment. They sat in silence, each thinking his own thoughts about time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of references in this chapter to previous Housemates stories. Can you spot them all?
> 
> Bits and pieces of Josie and Mitchell's dialogue in this and the previous chapter are from the show, and belong to the writers. I'm just borrowing them.
> 
> And lastly, Josie's statement about time being a kind friend is a slight misquote of a poem by Sara Teasdale, "Let It Be Forgotten."


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still here, still writing. As usual, thank you for your patience! It's summer, and I'm trying to finish my dissertation. Thus, procrastinating with fic writing.

Mitchell sat on the floor in his room for a long time after Loki had to leave for work, watching the narrow rectangle of light from the window crawl across the floor. The snowglobe was a comfortable weight in his hand, a solid reminder of the present moment as events swirled around him. With everything that had happened recently, this was one of those times, he reflected; everything felt mad, moving and shifting in ways that he couldn’t quite grasp, or see how it would look when things finally settled down. It occurred to him that he should try to sleep a little, but he didn’t feel tired. He had felt numb when he’d left Josie’s, fuzzy and lethargic after staying up most of the night, but now he felt a calm stillness, almost light, and clear in a way he hadn’t in a long time.

First Carl, now Josie. All around him, it seemed, was loss, and reminders of loss. The too-brief time Carl had had with Dan. What Mitchell and Carl had never managed to find together, despite the love they shared. The life he hadn’t been able to give Josie, however much he wanted to. He even mourned Herrick, in a way—mourned who and what he might have been. It was the same thing he mourned in himself. What might he have become, had he never met Herrick, never accepted his bargain?

_Probably nothing,_ he thought. Another casualty of the Great War, dead in the trenches, or as good as dead: a hollow shell of a man, too traumatized by what he’d seen and done to really be called alive. In those early years, the bloodlust was all that had kept the terror of those memories at bay. The dead littering the fields of Verdun and the Somme had shaped him as surely as anything Herrick had incited him to do. He barely remembered what it had felt like to be the boy who had gone off to war with dreams of coming home a hero, thinking it an exciting adventure, and he mourned for that memory, too.

It was a different kind of grief, though, that Mitchell felt that morning; not the suffocating sadness he’d been struggling with since Carl turned up on their doorstep, nor the terror and anger that had come with Herrick’s reappearance in his life, and with him Kemp and Azriel. Nor did it speak with the self-pitying voice he had listened to for so long, that told him he was a danger to everyone he loved, that he was better off alone or, worse yet, giving into the hunger, because it would conquer him eventually no matter what he did. This was sharper, cleaner. _Cleansing._ He sat with it for a long time, watching the progress of the shadows on his floor as the sun moved across the sky, as if moving might shatter the peace it seemed to have brought him.

It was midmorning when a knock on his door brought him back to himself. Annie put her head into the room. “Hey,” she said, sounding tentative.

“Hey.” Mitchell gestured for her to come in. He was surprised, and not surprised, that he welcomed her company. He was always glad to see Annie—it was hard not to be—but he also realized, as she joined him on the floor, that something seemed to have opened up in him: a desire to connect, without fear. A newfound belief that he could, perhaps, trust himself. 

Annie offered him a mug of tea. He took it, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic, and sipped. “Thanks,” he said, savoring the warmth as it spread through him. “I’m sorry.”

“ _You’re_ sorry?” Annie asked, surprised. “What for?”

“Last night.” Mitchell avoided her gaze. “I’m sorry about the way I . . . I was upset.”

“Oh, Mitchell.” Annie put her arm around him. “Of course you were. Are. I’m sorry you had to hear it from me like that.” She searched his face. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged. “Strangely, all right. I’ve just been sitting here, thinking. I’m . . . better than I’ve been in awhile, actually.” He let out a laugh. “I’m not really sure what to do with that, to be honest,” he said.

“Just be glad for it,” Annie suggested, patting his knee.

He turned to her, studying her face in turn. “How about you?”

“About the same,” she replied. “I feel like I should be terrified all the time, but I can’t live like that.”

“No,” Mitchell agreed.

“It’s like . . .” She trailed off, thinking. Finally she said, “Numbing. All this fear. I can’t be afraid anymore. I don’t have the energy for it.” She laughed, a little wryly. “That’s actually kind of like what living with Owen was like.”

Mitchell couldn’t help wincing, even though Annie’s manner was more bemused than anything else.

“Sorry,” Annie said, noticing his discomfort. “But it is. You’re just waiting for the next explosion and hoping you can get out of the way fast enough.”

“But you’ll be ready,” Mitchell said, trying to keep the question out of his voice. “You’re training. With Sykes.”

“Yeah,” Annie agreed. She sounded pensive.

“How’s that going?”

“What? Oh.” Annie gave herself a shake, seeming to come back from someplace else. “Fine,” she said. She frowned. “I just get the feeling, sometimes, that he’s holding back. Something happened that made him afraid.”

“Of the men behind the door?”

Annie shrugged. “Well, that. But something else. He doesn’t want to cross over, but I get the sense it’s for a different reason.” Her gaze turned distant again.

Mitchell frowned. “Annie.”

“Hmm?”

“Do you think he’s holding back from teaching you everything you need to know? Should I—or maybe Loki—”

“Oh, no,” Annie assured him. “If anything, it’s the opposite. He’s working very hard to keep me out of any potentially risky situation while I learn.”

Mitchell relaxed. “Good.”

Annie then she gave herself another shake and glanced at the clock on Mitchell’s nightstand. “I’m supposed to meet him, actually,” she said, getting to her feet. “Want to come?”

Mitchell shook his head. “I’ve got work,” he said. He badly needed a shower, and wanted to have time to make a stop on his way. He gulped the last of his tea and got to his feet, leaving the mug on the floor by the bed. Annie frowned and it whisked up into the air and into her hand, narrowly missing Mitchell’s head. “Oi!” he cried, then laughed. “I suppose I should be thanking you for not smacking me with it?”

“Just so,” Annie agreed with a grin, and left him rummaging through his wardrobe for something clean to wear.

***

Mitchell arrived at the hospital with plenty of time to spare before his shift. He found Lucy in her office, her head bent over an open file on her desk while she scribbled notes on a legal pad beside it. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t seem to hear his knock on her open door, so he came inside and set his morning’s purchase on the desk, sliding it into her line of sight.

She looked at it for several seconds, seeming not quite to process what she was seeing, and then her face broke into a delighted smile. She looked around at Mitchell. “You’ve brought me a goldfish!”

“I have,” he agreed, returning her grin.

“In a jar.” She pulled it closer and tapped the glass with her finger. “Are you even allowed to put goldfish in jars anymore?”

Mitchell looked at the jar they had put the fish in at the pet shop, along with some colorful stones in the bottom and a bit of plastic tubing in the lid to let air in. “Who says you can’t?”

“I don’t know. The—the people.” She picked up the jar and examined it more closely. “I’m sure there’s a thing now that you can’t put goldfish in jars.”

“You made that up.”

“I did not!” she protested. She managed to keep a straight face, but her eyes were twinkling.

“Hm.” Mitchell perched on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms, looking at her seriously. “We’d better take it up with the pet shop owner. It sounds serious.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Lucy said. 

“It’ll be our secret, then.” They regarded each other solemnly for another moment. Lucy looked away first, unable to keep from laughing any longer.

“Does he have a name?”

“Prince William.”

Her eyebrows climbed. “A royal fish!” She bent over the jar once more. “Hello, Your Highness. Do we have joint custody?” she asked Mitchell.

“No, he’s all yours. But his brother, Prince Harry, lives at our house now, so you may want to bring him over for a visit.”

Lucy began to laugh again, and Mitchell grinned. “It was my housemate’s idea,” he explained.

“George?”

“My other housemate. Loki.” When he’d come downstairs after his shower, he’d found Loki home for lunch, since he had a split day at the school, and invited him along. Never one to miss an opportunity to buy more toys for Scamp and the cats, Loki had accepted eagerly. “He was terribly pleased with his joke. Our cats are named Philip and Elizabeth,” he added. “His cats, really.”

“Ah. And do you have dogs named Charles and Diana?”

“Scamp,” he said.

She gave him a blank look.

“Our dog,” Mitchell clarified. “Her name is Scamp. Loki didn’t name her,” he added. Too late, he realized that if Lucy ever met Scamp, she wouldn’t be able to see her. Well. He’d talk to Loki about it, if the time came. He had set up that spell in the lounge so people could see Annie.

Meanwhile, Lucy was regarding him with a grin playing about her lips. He raised his eyebrows, questioning. She shook her head. “I just hadn’t pegged you for a pet person. Cats or dogs,” she said.

Mitchell grinned. “Blame Loki. He keeps rescuing animals. We’re going to need a bigger house before long.” 

Lucy looked wistful. “My sister was like that. She was always bringing in strays. It drove our parents crazy.” 

Mitchell grinned. _That’s pretty much how we got Loki,_ he thought to himself. “I’ll tell you how we ended up with the cats some other time,” Mitchell promised. “It’s a funny story.” And would be with some abridgments, though it would be missing the best part, he thought. He nodded toward the clock. “My shift is starting soon. I should go get changed.”

“What time do you get off later?” Lucy asked him. “You can tell me about it over a drink. Or—” She looked suddenly flustered. “Or—maybe that’s not a good idea? How about dinner? As friends,” she added quickly.

“It’s fine,” Mitchell assured her. He hesitated, then added, “Alcohol . . . wasn’t my drug of choice. A drink would be nice. I’m off at 8.”

***

When Mitchell met her at the pub that evening, he collapsed into the booth opposite her with a dramatic groan. “This,” he said, holding up his pint, “was a very good idea.” He took several long swallows and thunked it down on the table. He let his head fall back against the dark wood panels that separated the booths from one another and closed his eyes.

Lucy laughed, glad for the opening to banter. She had been rehearsing what she would say to him all afternoon, how she would explain what she knew and what she wanted to do. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to tell him yet—but she needed him to know, if she was going to try to help George. And she couldn’t go around knowing his secret like this. It wasn’t right. “Long day?” she asked.

“Hmmmph.” He picked his head up and leaned forward to look out of the booth. “I’m starving. D’you mind if order some food?”

Lucy’s voice caught in her throat. For an instant, as he leaned forward, something had seemed to flash across his face that her made her realize the terrible stupidity of her situation, alone with a vampire in a secluded booth in a dark pub—but, of course, he was just flagging down a waiter, asking her if she wanted to order anything. She resisted the urge to press her hand to her pounding heart and took a deep breath, hoping he hadn’t noticed. She managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “No, thanks, I ate at home. But you go ahead.”

By the time the server left, she had got herself under control. _Was there really a threat there, or am I just imagining things because I know what he is?_ she wondered. He claimed he was clean, and she had no reason to doubt him. Well. No reason, except that he was a vampire, and from everything Lucy understood about them, vampires were not a reliable bunch. 

Unless he wasn’t. It was entirely possible that Mitchell was nothing more than what he claimed—an ordinary bloke, recovering from an ordinary addiction. What evidence did she have, after all? None, really. She didn’t even know for certain about George. All she had were suppositions based on an old newspaper clipping and a few offhand comments. She closed her eyes and massaged her temples. _Stop trying to talk yourself out of it,_ she scolded herself. It was the same line of thought she had been following all day.

“Are you all right?” Mitchell asked. 

Lucy gave herself a shake. “Fine,” she said. She took a swallow of her beer. Maybe another time would be better— _no_ , she told herself firmly. She looked at him, regarding her with his hands clasped loosely together on the table, his too-pale skin and shadowed eyes. She might be crazy, but she was also right, and it wasn’t fair not to tell him—not only for the sake of whatever friendship might be growing up between them, but also for George. Because she had to try to save him. For Laura.

When she didn’t go on, Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

She took another deep breath and scrubbed her hands across her face. “I’m sure. There’s just—something I need to talk to you about. Something—difficult.” 

She could sense his growing wariness, gathering around him like a cloud. He had lifted his pint to take a drink, but now he paused and set it carefully on the table. “What is it?”

She forced herself to meet his eyes. “Mitchell, I know.”

He went very still. It was an animal stillness, like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk. Or maybe she had it backwards; maybe it was the stillness of a leopard crouching in the shade. “You know,” he repeated. His voice was soft and even, but she could hear the effort it was taking him to keep it steady. “What, exactly?”

“I know what you are. I know—” Her voice caught, and she had to pause before she continued, “you’re a vampire. And I know George is a werewolf.”

If Mitchell had been pale before, his skin went from white to ashen, down to his lips. “I see.” His voice was still low and controlled, and in the long silence that followed Lucy discovered, once again, that she was afraid of him. That he wasn’t laughing at her was evidence of the truth of her deductions. What would he do, if he deemed her knowledge a threat? _That was a question that could have occurred to me sooner,_ she thought grimly.

He noticed her fear, this time, and acknowledged it with a subtle incline of his head and a soft—almost inaudible—sigh. “Don’t worry, Lucy, I’m not going to hurt you. I don’t do that.” He sounded tired. Soul-weary. “I haven’t had human blood in years.”

The scientist in her perked up at that, and before she could stop herself, Lucy asked, “You don’t need it, then? You can survive without it?”

He sighed again, louder this time. “It helps . . . certain things.” He waved a hand. “But no, it’s not a necessity.” As if that had been a signal, Mitchell’s dinner arrived and they both waited until the server had moved away. He looked down at his burger and grimaced, pushing the plate to one side. “How long have you known?”

“I figured it out the other day. When you said you had an addiction. Before that I thought—I thought you were a werewolf, too. Like George.”

Mitchell barked a laugh at that. “Most vampires would see that as a serious insult.” 

Once again, her curiosity got the better of her. “So it’s true, then? Vampires and werewolves . . . ?”

“Don’t get along,” Mitchell finished. He picked up a chip and contemplated it for a moment before he ate it.

“Why?”

“Honestly?” He shrugged. “No real reason. Bigotry. Fear. That, and the fact that most vampires are arseholes and most werewolves are either frightened and confused by what they are, or else they’re just trying to get along quietly without hurting anyone.” He bit into another chip and chewed thoughtfully. “Or maybe I’m just giving into stereotypes.” He fixed her with an intent gaze, and asked, “How do you know about George?”

“A newspaper clipping. It’s complicated,” Lucy said. “Before I came to Bristol, I was a research scientist, and werewolves were part of my research. I had intended to give that all up, but then I saw this clipping, an article about an animal attack, and I recognized George.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I realize how this probably sounds, but I’m not trying to make trouble. I’m actually—I’m trying to help.”

Mitchell was silent for a moment. “You said that. The other day. You said you wanted to help me, if I’d let you. What did you mean?”

“I meant—” She looked down at her hands and took a deep breath. This was what she wanted to talk to him about. Her heart was pounding. “I meant I could help George.” She looked back up at him. “I think—I think I know how to cure him.”

***

“ _Cure him?_ ” Mitchell repeated incredulously. After an exhausting shift—it had been an everyone’s-been-sick day, and he’d had to wash his hair twice before he felt like he’d gotten the smell of it out—this conversation was almost more than he could handle. He shook his head. “That’s impossible, Lucy.”

She bristled. “Oh, and you’re the expert?”

He glanced around and lowered his voice. “I’m a hundred and twenty years old, Lucy. I know a little bit about these things, yeah.”

She blinked. Mitchell bit back his annoyance. He grimaced and pulled his fingers back through his hair. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—but I’ve never heard of someone finding a cure.”

She waved a hand in dismissal. She looked dazed. “It’s all right. I just—I heard that phrase a lot. _That’s impossible, Lucy._ It’s still just a theory, but . . .” She trailed off, her gaze focusing on him. “Are you really . . . ?”

Mitchell gave her a weary smile. He may not look it, but lately he had felt every second of the last century and a quarter. “I’m well-preserved.”

He could almost see the wheels turning in her head. “Vampires really don’t age?” she asked. “How old were you when you—?”

“Twenty-seven.”

She shook her head, marveling. “But _how_?”

He lifted one shoulder in an eloquent shrug. “I don’t know. My hair grows. I eat and piss and shit just like everybody else. I get tired and need to sleep. But I don’t need to breathe. My heart doesn’t beat. I’m not really alive.” He shrugged again. “Or dead. Some things you can’t explain.” He could see that she wouldn’t accept that easily, and he forged ahead before she could ask him any more questions. “How do you know about werewolves and vampires? Most ordinary humans don’t, unless they’ve had some sort of firsthand experience.”

She nodded. “It was my sister. She was scratched. I was trying to find a cure for her.”

“Was?”

“She died. She killed herself. Two years ago. I couldn’t help her, but . . .”

“I’m sorry.” They were both silent for a few moments, then Mitchell said, “Tell me about your theory. I’ll talk to George about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot is moving forward! The scene with the goldfish is adapted from canon, but the fish needed a new name, as there is already a Housemates character named Trevor. Loki was happy to supply me with the joke in exchange for a goldfish of his own.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are some brother feels, and George has an uncomfortable conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that, a timely update! Happy Monday, everyone!

Thor’s claim of Avengers business in Bristol hadn’t been entirely fabricated. Tony Stark had an inventor friend who lived in the city with whom Thor had spent a most enlightening two days while his brother was at his job, and had availed himself of the opportunity to meet with the witches Catherine and Agnes. But by Thursday, he was running out of excuses to stay. He disliked leaving his brother and his friends under the circumstances, but his other obligations could not be ignored forever.

He joined Loki on his evening run—a ritual Thor was coming to enjoy a great deal—and then retired to Annie’s room after his shower to pack his things. She had bunked in with Loki for the nights Thor had stayed in Bristol, pointing out with a wink when he protested that she slept there most nights, anyway. Thor worked slowly, rolling his clothes into neat logs and tucking them carefully into his bag, as if he could prolong his visit if he dragged his feet enough. 

He was nearly done when Loki appeared in the doorway, His lips quirked into a fond smile as he watched him set aside the few items he would need tonight. “I am glad you came, Brother, but you do not need to feel so badly about leaving. You have your other duties, and I am quite all right.”

“I know.” Thor couldn’t help the worry that creased his brow. “But I dislike leaving Bristol with this Azriel still on the loose.”

“He is hardly ‘on the loose,’” Loki pointed out. “He is actually quite confined, at least on this plane. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“Oh?” Thor paused what he was doing and looked up. This was the first he had heard of Loki having a plan for containing the creature.

“I am working on a spell to reinforce the boundary between realms in the place where he seems to have pushed through.” His gaze turned inward for a moment. “Though I think it will be a few more days before my magic is sufficiently recovered to attempt it.”

“Perhaps I should stay—”

“Brother.” Loki cut him off gently. “You know you are welcome, always, but it is not necessary. Truly. Azriel’s reach is limited, and I am being cautious. We all are.” The smile quirked again, and he continued, “I will not tell you not to worry, but . . . try to remember I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

“I do not doubt it,” Thor murmured, and he didn’t—but he could not keep from calling to mind the numerous instances when Loki looking after himself or his friends had resulted in grievous injury, not to mention all the predicaments his brother seemed to find himself in despite his best intentions. Loki’s condition when Thor arrived in Bristol had shaken him badly. Thor was no sorcerer like his brother, but he was Aesir, and had enough magical ability to sense what Annie had by observing Loki’s aura: that his soul, though still tethered to his body, was somewhere far away. It was not the same, but Thor could not help but see in his mind’s eye that terrible day New York when his brother had died, sacrificed himself in Thor’s place. Nor could he help but recall his vigil over his brother in Asgard, after the Jotun Helblindi had saved him. Even with the evidence of Loki’s recovery right in front of him, he still half-expected his brother to have a relapse in front of him. He sighed. “I know you will only do what you feel is necessary, brother, but . . . try not to do anything reckless.”

Loki frowned, affronted. “I am not reckless.”

Thor snorted. “And I am not prideful.” He avoided looking at him as he tucked the last few items into his bag and set it aside, leaving it open for the last few things he would pack in the morning. He knew quite well that Loki could take care of himself. His brother was a skilled and powerful sorcerer, and was nearly as seasoned in battle as Thor himself—as Thor knew all too well. How often had Loki put those abilities to use to protect himself from his own brother, or from something Thor had instigated, or thrown him into? It rubbed at him, that he had not protected his younger brother as he should have, all those years. Instead, he had been perfectly happy to use his little brother, and Loki had had to protect himself from _him_. 

Still not looking at his brother, Thor sat down on the edge of the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. 

A long moment passed in silence. He heard Loki’s soft steps on the carpet as he crossed the room to him. The mattress shifted beside him. “Thor. Brother. What is this all about?”

Thor grimaced. He felt a duty—no, that was the wrong word. He had a duty to his brother, it was true, but this was different. This was a desire, a _need_ , to be the brother Loki had believed him to be when they were children. And perhaps—he forced himself to admit this—he felt left out of Loki’s life in Bristol. He enjoyed spending time here, and he was happy for Loki, but a part of him (which he was not proud of) felt resentment. Loki hadn’t needed him. He remembered his brother hovering around the edges of Thor and his friends for all those years, and thought with grim amusement that now he understood what Loki was feeling. Thor wanted Loki to need him, and it left him feeling lost that he didn’t. He sighed again. “I suppose,” he said at last, “that I am making up for lost time.”

He felt Loki shift beside him, felt his questioning gaze on him.

Thor hitched one shoulder into an uncomfortable shrug. “When we were children, you were always seeking my regard, and my protection, and I . . .” He faltered.

“You were also a child,” Loki said gently, when Thor didn’t continue. “With little guidance and too much responsibility. It is behind us, brother. We cannot change the past.”

“No, we cannot,” Thor agreed. He heard the hollowness in his own voice.

Loki touched his shoulder and waited for him to meet his eyes. He gave him a reassuring pat. “I only mean that things are different now. _We_ are different now. The past does not define us.”

Thor looked his brother up and down, in his blue jeans and hooded sweatshirt that had become his uniform here on Midgard—though he had expanded his wardrobe of sweatshirts from the black that he had favored. Thor had given him the one he was wearing now, blue-green with a design on the back that showed a giant squid holding a monster’s head on a stick at the surface of the water. The design had greatly amused him, and he had been very glad his brother was also pleased with the joke. Loki’s hair was still damp from the shower, drying in unruly waves about his shoulders. So unlike the cold, polished Aesir mask he had worn for so long. Thor felt himself begin to smile. “So we are,” he said. He got to his feet. “For one thing, my little brother has turned out to be far wiser than I.”

“Sometimes,” Loki agreed, and then added with a glint of mischief, “But I promise I will call you should we need to something smashed with a hammer.”

“Scoundrel.” Thor aimed a playful cuff at Loki’s head, which he ducked easily as he preceded him out the door.

“I am the God of Mischief, after all,” he said. “Come. I am hungry, and I am not letting you leave until you have made us another pie.”

***

The smell of apple pie permeated the house when Mitchell finally got home, his body heavy with exhaustion. Annie, Loki, and Thor were in the lounge, Loki and Thor with empty plates streaked with crumbs and melted ice cream on the coffee table in front of them. 

Annie leaned over the back of the sofa when she heard him come in. Her brow creased with concern. “Mitchell! Are you all right? You look awful.”

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long day, and I didn’t sleep last night.” He peered into the room. “Is George around?”

“He went to Nina’s for the night.” Annie grinned. “I think they wanted some alone time.”

Of course he had. “Dammit,” Mitchell muttered. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the hook.

“Is everything all right?” Annie asked again.

“Yeah.” He made a dismissive gesture. “I just need to talk to him about something. It’s nothing.” He went in the kitchen to put his take away in the fridge—he had managed to eat exactly four chips at the pub, and was now too tired and too anxious to even think about food, even Thor’s apple pie—and returned to the lounge with a beer. Exhausted as he was, he didn’t think he could sleep yet. He plopped in the red chair and took a long drink.

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” Annie said.

Mitchell cradled the bottle in his hands and regarded the three of them, crowded onto the sofa together, all looking at him with worried expressions. He bit the inside of his lip. He should _really_ talk to George about this before the rest of the housemates, but . . . he wasn’t likely to see George before the following afternoon, and the prospect of keeping his conversation with Lucy to himself for that long was almost physically painful. 

He hesitated for another moment, then took another long drink and said, “I’ve just come from having a drink with Lucy.” Another time, Loki or Annie would have ribbed him about that, and it was an indicator of just how much of Mitchell’s anxiety was showing that neither of them did. They both waited expectantly. “She knows about George and me.”

That took a moment to sink in. “Knows . . . knows that you’re . . . ?” Annie trailed off. Mitchell nodded. “How?”

“George . . . she came across an old article about the attack in Scotland that changed him. I guess there was a picture, and she recognized him.”

Annie frowned, but before she could say anything Loki asked, “And you?”

“Me, she said she thought _I_ was a werewolf, too, at first.” Annie couldn’t help snorting at that. Mitchell took another swallow of his beer. “But then . . . I told her that I’m an addict. I didn’t say to what, but I told her that was why I didn’t want to get involved, and—apparently she put two and two together.”

“And got five,” Annie said. “What would make her think ‘vampire’ and ‘werewolf’ are more reasonable explanations than ‘addiction’ and ‘animal attack’?”

“Her sister,” Mitchell replied. “She was a werewolf. Before she came to Bristol, Lucy did research about werewolves.” He paused. “She was trying to find a cure.”

Annie’s mouth dropped into an “O” of surprise, her eyes growing large. “Did she?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Her sister killed herself before Lucy could. She said she decided to give it all up when she moved here, but then—I’m a little unclear on this—something happened that made her decide to go back to it. And she thinks—she thinks she can cure George.”

There was a long silence when he finished. “I can see why you wanted to talk to George,” Annie murmured at last.

Mitchell grimaced. “I meant to talk to him about it before you guys. But . . .”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” Annie said.

“Do you trust this Lucy?” Thor spoke up.

He thought about it for a moment. He realized he was rubbing at his scar as he did, and dropped his hand into his lap. “I don’t _dis_ trust her,” he said. “I can usually tell when people are lying to me, and I don’t think she was. I trust that her intentions are good, but that doesn’t mean I trust that she can do what she says. Or that she should.”

“Sometimes it is people who mean well who do the most harm,” Loki said.

Mitchell frowned. “Sometimes,” he allowed, wondering which of Loki’s past actions he was projecting onto this situation. He pushed the thought away. “But it’s going to be up to George, whether he wants to trust her.”

“Of course,” Annie said, and Loki added, “We will make sure whatever she wants to try is safe.”

Mitchell let out a breath. He felt better, having unburdened himself to them. “Thanks,” he said. “Just do me a favor, if you see George, and let me talk to him about it, yeah? I don’t want him to feel like we’ve been discussing this behind his back.” They agreed, and Mitchell took the last few swallows of his beer and got to his feet, enjoying the rush of lightheadedness. He swayed on his feet for a moment. _Bless Loki for discovering 12 proof beer,_ he thought. It was the only thing that could get him even slightly drunk, and it had a considerably greater effect on Mitchell. Between that and the pint he had had at the pub, he was in the only acceptable condition to be in after a day like his. He bid farewell to Thor, told his friends goodnight and stumbled up to bed, where he fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

***

George hated to admit it, because he loved the house on the terrace and he loved his housemates, but he had badly needed a night out of the house. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, but the general atmosphere of worry and fear had begun to make him feel like he couldn’t relax, even in the relative privacy of his room. He may have been projecting his own anxiety, George admitted, but in any case, spending the night at Nina’s was like taking a holiday. Sleeping together—among other things—in her queen-size bed hadn’t hurt, either.

He hummed to himself as he pushed the laundry cart down the corridor, loaded on one side with fresh linen and on the other with hampers for used sheets, already getting full from the rooms he had been asked to ready for new patients. He shouldered the next door open and went to work on the beds, leaving the cart in the hallway. Both beds were empty, as was the corridor outside, so he let his humming escalate to singing under his breath.

_Monday you can fall apart_  
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart  
Thursday doesn’t even start 

“But Friday I’m in love!” he sang out, fluffing the pillow with a flourish.

A stifled laugh came from the doorway. George’s ears grew hot. He straightened and turned around, trying to pretend nonchalance. To his surprise, the person standing there, biting her lip to keep from laughing, was Mitchell’s doctor friend, Lucy. George blinked.

“Hello,” he said. “. . . Can I help you with something? Do you need a room changed?”

She shook her head. “George. I’m Lucy. We met the other day—well, a couple weeks ago, now.”

He nodded, puzzled. “You’re Mitchell’s friend.” He refrained from telling her just how much conversation in their house had been focused on her, but he was surprised that she should have remembered him, from their brief meeting. “He’s not in today, if you’re looking for him.”

“I was looking for you, actually.” 

“Me?” George’s eyebrows climbed in surprise.

She frowned. “Mitchell didn’t talk to you.” It wasn’t a question.

George frowned back, puzzled. “I didn’t see Mitchell yesterday.” It occurred to him she may have misunderstood his relationship with Mitchell, so he added, “We’re not a couple. Just housemates.”

She closed her mouth, looking nonplussed. “I know,” she said.

“I mean,” he went on quickly, his face coloring again, “not that there’s anything wrong with that, but we’re not. And we’ve been on off shifts, the last couple of days, so we haven’t been seeing much of each other.”

Lucy held up a hand. “It’s all right. I’m sorry. There was something I wanted to talk to you about, but I thought Mitchell—” She broke off. “We had a drink after work last night, and . . .”

George couldn’t help breaking into a wide grin. “Did you!” he exclaimed. “I am delighted to hear that. I was getting very tired of helping Mitchell avoid you.”

She smiled briefly back, then said, “It’s probably better if you talk to Mitchell first.”

George smoothed the coverlet on the second bed. “Well, now you’ve piqued my curiosity. What’s the secret?”

“It’s not a secret—well.” She looked around, as if seeking a way out of the room. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ve really mucked things up, haven’t I?”

George raised his eyebrows, his amusement gone. “I don’t know. Have you?”

She sighed. “Maybe it’s better if we talk in private. Do you have a few minutes to come to my office?”

Curious, and with growing trepidation, George parked his cart near the supply closet and walked with her in silence to the adjacent wing where her office was. She closed the door behind them, crossed to her desk and stood there with her back to him for a moment. Then she turned around and said. “I know about you and Mitchell.”

George stared at her, caught somewhere between panic and bewilderment. They had already had the _George and Mitchell are not a couple_ conversation, so that could only mean—

“I know he’s a vampire. And you’re a werewolf,” Lucy clarified.

“ _What?_ ” George squeaked in alarm. Belatedly, he tried to turn his expression into one of incredulity and uttered what he hoped sounded like a laugh. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no such things. What in the world gives you the idea that we—that’s not even possible—”

“I know it is, George.” Her weary tone silenced him. “I know you’re just trying to— My sister was attacked by a werewolf when she was fourteen. She was scratched.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. And then, “How . . . ?”

She opened a file on her desk and took out an odd-shaped piece of paper. George’s hand shook as he took it from her. He recognized the newspaper clipping. “Where—?” He licked his lips. “Where did you get this from?” His voice had gone harsh with fear.

“Somebody gave it to me,” Lucy said. “It doesn’t matter.”

It mattered a great deal, George knew, but his thoughts were spinning too quickly for him to string a sentence together. When he could speak again, he only managed one word: “Why?” He held up the newspaper clipping to demonstrate the rest of his question. _What does this have to do with me? Why are you telling me this?_

“When my sister was . . . changed, I started studying werewolves, trying to understand the—the process. I was trying to find a way to stop it, to find a cure, and . . . I think I did.”

George’s legs nearly went out from under him. He groped behind him for the wall and felt his way along it until he reached a chair. He sank into it. “You what?” he asked faintly.

She pulled her own chair over to the table he sat beside and explained. George had to work hard to focus, not sure whether he should be fleeing or falling at her feet. Not that he was capable of either at the moment. It was all he could do stay upright. He clutched at the edge of the table until his fingers ached.

“It’s just a theory,” she concluded. “I never got the chance to test it before my sister—before she died. I couldn’t get the funding or the equipment I needed.”

“But now you have.”

She nodded. “And if you’re willing . . .”

That, at least, George knew how to answer properly. He snorted in derision. “Thank you, no, I’d rather not be a guinea pig for a mad scientist with a crazy theory about the moon. I don’t think so.” Steadied by the surge of adrenaline at her suggestion that he let her test her theory on him, he got to his feet. “If I’m free to go?”

“I’m not—” She sighed, and got to her feet as well, though she kept enough distance between them to be nonthreatening. “Of course you are. I don’t necessarily expect you to trust me, George, but . . . just think about it. Talk to Mitchell. I’m trying to help.”

He pulled the door open and escaped into the corridor before he started shaking again. He didn’t hum any more for the rest of his shift.

***

“George, I’m so sorry I wasn’t the one to talk to you first,” Mitchell said. Annie handed George a mug of tea and joined him and Loki on the couch.

George looked around at the three of them. “You all knew?”

“Just since last night,” Annie assured him.

“I’m sorry,” Mitchell said again. “You weren’t here, and I couldn’t keep it to myself. It was . . . an awful lot to take in.”

George snorted. “You can say that.” He sipped his tea, allowing himself to be comforted by it. “What do you think?” he asked at last. “Is it possible?”

Mitchell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never heard of a cure, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible. Loki’s probably the best equipped among us to evaluate her theory.”

Loki nodded, looking thoughtful. “Her conclusion that there is a relationship between the workings of the moon on the tides and its influence on the werewolf change is plausible,” he admitted. “But I would have to know more about how she intends to, to interrupt the relationship and prevent the change.”

“She didn’t say?” Mitchell asked George.

“Not so I could understand. I was bit dazed.” He grimaced. “What I did get, was that there was some sort of specialized equipment she hadn’t been able to get before, but she has it now. She’s got some kind of funding. And somebody gave her that newspaper clipping.”

They all exchanged a look. “Do you think it could be . . . ?” Annie whispered. And then, “No, it couldn’t be.”

“It’s almost too big of a coincidence,” Mitchell said grimly.

Loki’s eyes suddenly grew wide with realization. “I think—” he began, and then dashed from the room without finishing. The other three housemates shared a puzzled look as they listened to his feet pounding up the stairs. A moment later he came back with a small leatherbound book in his hands. “Kemp’s journal,” he said breathlessly. “I took it from his desk when we went to the church last week.” He plopped back down on the sofa and began paging through it. “Here.” He handed it to Annie, who glanced over the page and passed to to Mitchell, who passed it to George, and then back to Loki. “He writes of a professor, the author of a book about . . . ” he paged through the journal again. “He calls them _abominations_ , but he talks about his desire to save them.” Loki said. “I have been puzzling over it.”

“You think . . . ?” Annie asked.

Mitchell’s face had gone paler than usual. “She was a professor before she came to Bristol,” Mitchell said. “And she did research on werewolves. It’s possible she wrote a book.”

“Do you think she knows what Kemp is up to?” Annie wondered aloud.

“No.” Mitchell answered without hesitation. “Whatever else is going on, I don’t think Lucy means to harm anyone.”

They all looked at George. He gulped. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Because it’s your decision,” Mitchell said. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know!” He heard his voice climb an octave, and clamped his mouth shut.

After a moment, Loki said quietly, “I think that whatever your decision is, we will need to speak to her. If she is allied with Kemp—even unknowingly—we need to know to what end.” He looked at Mitchell. “As you said, this seems too much to be a coincidence.”

Mitchell nodded and reached in his pocket for his mobile. “I’ll call her,” he said. “Should I tell her to come now, or later?”

“Let’s have dinner first,” Annie suggested.

“All right. I’ll ask her to come at 9.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The design on Loki's sweatshirt in this chapter really exists! It's a Threadless design called "Loch Ness Imposter." You can view it here: https://www.threadless.com/product/281/Loch_Ness_Imposter (Alas, in our reality, it is not available on a hoodie.)


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very talky chapter, as we get everyone on the same page.
> 
> Also, I really hope I've remembered which cat is which. Coneycat may wish to correct me on matters of markings and personality!

There was still plenty of time for Loki to have his evening run before dinner, which was a relief. He had missed this morning’s run so that he could take Thor to the small private airport outside town, where Tony had arranged a flight back to New York. Between hearing about Lucy from Mitchell last night, and deducing her connection to Kemp this afternoon, he had a great deal of anxious energy he wished to work out.

Thor had, of course, offered again to stay in Bristol, and Loki was beginning to regret insisting that he go. It was not that there was anything in particular that Thor could do—as Loki himself had pointed out, multiple times—but he wanted his brother’s strong, solid presence nearby. Still, Thor had his other responsibilities, and Loki was perfectly capable of dealing with Kemp and Azriel. Better equipped, in some ways (though he had not said as much to Thor). His brother was many things, but subtlety was not (usually) among them.

As he settled into a steady rhythm, he considered how best to approach Lucy. He was intrigued by her theory about the mechanism of the werewolf change. Were the discussion purely academic, he thought he would greatly enjoy working with her to understand the finer points of the transformation. But it wasn’t academic; this was George, who, although he was more secure in his sense of himself as _not a monster_ , still hated what he called his “condition.” He was getting on with things in spite of it—was even happy—but Loki worried that the prospect of a cure would open old wounds what would not be quick to heal. Not to mention that any attempt to interrupt the transformation would potentially be very dangerous to George.

And, of course, Lucy was either being used by Kemp, or actively working with him. If the former, Loki felt an obligation to protect her. If the latter . . . well. The protective charms on the house would tell him a great deal. The rhinoceros charm was meant to protect from supernatural attacks, but the perception filter he had created had been keyed to anyone who intended to harm any of the housemates. If she couldn’t find the house, that would be an important part of their answer—though of course, even with good intentions, she could still do a great deal of harm.

It was Mitchell’s turn to cook, but they had all agreed that the evening called for take away. He came downstairs after his shower just as their pizza was arriving. He felt more relaxed after his run, but the tension around the table was only somewhat mitigated by the comfort of hot bread and cheese.

“Look,” Mitchell ventured after a few minutes, picking up a stray mushroom and placing it back on his slice of pizza. “I’d like to assume the best to start with. I don’t want her to feel like she’s being interrogated.”

George scowled. “I do,” he muttered. Loki turned a surprised glance on him, as did Annie and Mitchell. He was sat slouched in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. He had barely touched his food. When he felt his friend’s gazes on him, he bristled. “What?” he demanded.

“Nothing.” Annie made a placating gesture. “That just doesn’t sound like you, is all.”

“Well, I do want to interrogate her,” George said. “And I want her to feel interrogated. I want to know where she got that news clipping from, and why, and I want to know what Kemp is up to. She _knows_ about me. About _us._ ” He turned a challenging glare on Mitchell, “She’s invaded my privacy. And yours.”

Mitchell opened his mouth to reply, his eyebrows drawing down, but Annie cut in gently, “We want to know those things, too. Mitchell was just saying—”

“I know. Benefit of the doubt.” George slumped a little, but the scowl didn’t leave his face.

Loki studied him for a moment. George had been badly shaken by learning that Lucy knew his secret, and now that the shock of it had worn off fear was giving way to anger—or finding its expression in anger, more like. Something Loki was far more familiar with than he wished to be.

“Mitchell is right,” he said. “As satisfying as it may be to frighten someone who has frightened you, it is better to assume her good intentions.” When George opened his mouth, looking defensive, Loki held up a hand to forestall him. “We need information more than anything right now, and we all know frightened people do not provide reliable intelligence.” George grimaced and nodded at that, looking suitably chastened. Between them, the housemates had some experience on the receiving end of intimidation. Loki continued, more gently, “You do not have to decide today if you want to trust her on the matter of her cure. Let us focus on the matter of her connection to Kemp and what we can discern of how his intentions overlap with hers.”

***

The house on Windsor Terrace surprised Lucy. She hadn’t _quite_ been expecting a dark, forbidding mansion on the outskirts of town, but the unassuming pink row house in Totterdown was about as far away from the image of a vampire’s place of residence as one could get, even if the intention was to blend in.

She smiled nervously when Mitchell opened the door. “Thanks for coming so late,” he said, gesturing her inside.

“Oh, no, thank you for calling,” she replied, then felt awkward as she let him take her coat. Mitchell’s phone call had been a surprise, after her disastrous conversation with George that afternoon. She was just glad they were willing to talk to her at all. “I mean, it’s no trouble.”

“We just had some questions,” Mitchell said.

Lucy hesitated in the doorway to the lounge. Mitchell had gone to sit on a love seat that looked to have been moved from its accustomed place to face a larger couch across a coffee table. George was sitting on the couch with another man who must be Loki: tall and thin, with long dark hair, light eyes and cheekbones that her mate Cynthia would say could cut glass. A curly-haired young woman sat cross-legged in a red chair beside the sofa. Lucy had to take a deep breath. She had expected to speak with Mitchell and George, not their whole household—including, it seemed, the two cats Philip and Elizabeth, who sauntered up to her with tails held high.

The little black and white cats were a welcome distraction. Lucy squatted down and held out her hand for them to sniff, and then scratched the ears of the one with the white marking under its chin.

“That one is Elizabeth.” Lucy glanced up to see Loki watching her over the arm of the sofa, looking pleased. She remembered that Mitchell had said the cats were mostly his.

She smiled. “Then this must be Philip,” she observed, letting the shyer cat nuzzle her free hand for a moment before she stood up and took the available seat beside Mitchell. She felt more relaxed, and wasn’t sure if it was just her, or if there was a general lessening of tension in the room.

“You’ve met George—obviously,” Mitchell said as she sat. She nodded to him, though he was still not looking particularly friendly towards her. Lucy supposed she couldn’t blame him for not trusting her. She wasn’t sure she would trust her, in his place. “These are my other housemates,” Mitchell went on. “Loki, and Annie.” The young woman smiled brightly, and the man nodded in such a way that it was almost a seated bow.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lucy,” he said politely. There was a niggling familiarity about him, something about the way he spoke, but Lucy couldn’t quite place it. 

The four housemates exchanged a quick glance, and then Loki leaned forward, rested his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I—we—have a few questions about your research, and how it led you to George.”

Lucy blinked, surprised that he was the one taking the lead. She glanced around at the other three, “I’ll do my best to answer them.” She looked around at Mitchell and his housemates. “I want you to know that I’m really trying to help, though. I—”

“We know,” Mitchell said quickly. 

“We just want to understand a little bit more about where you’re coming from,” Annie said. She made a movement like she was shooing something from her lap, then unfolded her legs and got up from the chair. “I’m going to make some tea.” She smiled again. “I think everything’s easier with tea. Would you like some?”

***

Loki looked on with approval as Lucy greeted the kittens before coming into the lounge and sitting down beside Mitchell. It was another point in her favor—the first being her ability to find the house. Had she come with ill-intent, she would have found herself wandering around on the street outside until one of them came out to get her. 

They sat in awkward silence for a few moments after Annie left to make tea (she had gestured Loki back to his seat when he moved to help her), though Lucy made a few valiant attempts at small talk.

“Have you all lived here long?” she asked, watching the kittens wrestle on the couch beside Loki.

“A few years,” Mitchell replied. “Annie lived here first, and then George and me moved in, and then Loki.”

“Ah. And, um, Loki. What do you do?”

The question surprised him. It wasn’t as if people tended to recognize him on the street—he kept a rather lower profile than the Avengers, and those who had seen him on television would have caught only glimpses of him, in full costume. Still, he expected people to recognize him once they saw him up close and learned his name, and was surprised by how often that wasn’t the case. “I am a janitor at a school,” he replied politely, feeling it prudent for the moment not to reveal his abilities or his connection to the Avengers.

Evicted from Annie’s lap, Scamp made a circuit of the room’s other occupants, sniffing at hands and feet and wagging her tail. Lucy shivered as she passed, as if she felt a sudden chill. Mitchell made an apologetic noise, and beckoned to the little dog. “That’ll be Scamp. Sorry.”

Lucy looked around, confused. “What?”

“Our dog. I think I mentioned her?” Mitchell scratched her ears. Lucy watched with bemusement, his hands, to her eyes, moving in empty air. “She’s a ghost,” Mitchell added. “I sort of forgot that part.”

Lucy opened and closed her mouth a few times, soundlessly. Then she shook her head, looking from him to Loki and then George. “I can’t decide if you’re having me on or not,” she said.

“I assure you, she is quite real,” Loki replied. He reached across the coffee table toward her. “Take my hand.” She hesitated, then took it.

“Oh,” she said, when Scamp appeared, leaning against Mitchell’s knees with an expression of doggy bliss as he stroked her curly fur. She released his hand, then touched it again. “Ghosts are real,” she said faintly.

“I certainly hope so!” Annie said cheerfully. She set down the tray of steaming mugs and began handing them around. “I’d have a problem if they weren’t.”

Scamp abandoned Mitchell as soon as Annie was seated and reclaimed her place in her lap.

“But I can see you,” Lucy said. Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Loki. “Are you . . . ?”

“No,” Loki replied, then went on, before they could be distracted from the reason for this conversation, “I know you have already explained your theory of a werewolf cure to George and Mitchell, but I would appreciate it if you would explain it to me in a bit more detail.”

Lucy looked surprised, as if she _had_ forgotten the reason for her visit, and took a moment to gather herself. “I believe the change is caused by the same mechanism of the tidal effects of the moon on the oceans,” she explained. “Somehow it—it pulls on the blood. I’ve observed the effect in blood samples. Even outside the body they are . . .” She trailed off for a moment and gestured. “Volatile, at the full moon.”

“Blood samples?” George looked suspicious.

“From my sister.” Lucy looked down at her hands, clasped around a chipped mug. “I was trying to find a cure for her.”

Annie shot a quelling look at George, and he relaxed, just a little.

Lucy took a sip of tea and went on, “The moon’s gravitational field affects the atmosphere as well as the ocean. Atmospheric tides alter the air pressure, and I believe that’s what causes the werewolf transformation. At the full moon, the sun and the moon are aligned, making the tidal pull especially strong, but I think by neutralizing the pressure . . .”

“You can stop the change,” George finished, his voice very soft. Loki glanced at him. He looked torn between fear and hope. Loki did not blame him. If George hadn’t been huddled against the armrest at the opposite end of the sofa in a posture that announced he’d rather not be touched, Loki would have reached across and squeezed his hand.

“How would you neutralize the moon’s tidal pull?” Loki asked.

“I have a hyperbaric chamber at my—my facility, I guess you would call it.” Loki raised his eyebrows. “A decompression chamber they use for divers,” she clarified, though that was not what had elicited his reaction. He let her continue, though. “If George goes into the chamber on the full moon, and we adjust the pressure to neutralize the tidal pull, then he—you”—she turned to George—“won’t change.”

They were all silent for a few moments, digesting this. Then Mitchell asked Loki, “What do you think?”

There was another flicker of surprise across Lucy’s features, as when Loki had taken the lead in asking questions earlier. He swallowed the last of his tea and placed the mug back on the tray, then sat back. “It is possible,” he said.

“But?” That was George.

“For one thing, it is not really a cure in the strictest sense. You may be able to prevent the change once, but then what? Do you go into the chamber every month?” Annie nodded at this, as if she had been thinking something similar.

“It’s better than rampaging about and possibly killing or turning someone,” George said.

“If it works,” Loki said.

“Even if it does, how do you know it won’t be like that time you tried sedating it?” Annie asked.

George grimaced, having no other answer.

Loki turned back to Lucy. “In addition, your theory does not address a fundamental aspect of the transformation.”

“Oh?” She seemed a little bewildered by the exchange that had excluded her and Loki couldn’t blame her.

He spread his hands. “Magic. George’s transformation is obviously a product of the tidal effects of the moon, but it is also effected by magic.”

Her brows drew downward. “That’s . . .” She looked around at the others. “Now you _are_ having me on,” she said, though she found only serious expressions on every face in the room.

Loki couldn’t help the impatience that crept into his voice. “Surely you do not mean to tell me that you accept ghosts, vampires, and werewolves, but you do not believe in magic?”

“They’re natural phenomena,” Lucy protested.

“So is magic. It is a force your science cannot comprehend or detect, but it is no less real or natural. This world is steeped in it.” He paused, then added, on reflection, “Not as much as some other worlds, but nonetheless.”

“I . . .” Lucy began, and trailed off. She seemed at a loss. Finally she said, “You don’t think it will work.”

“It _may_ work,” Loki allowed. “But I think without understanding all the forces involved, it is also very dangerous. You haven’t tested your theory?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t get the equipment I needed. I couldn’t get the funding.”

“But now you have a—” He cast about for the right word. “A sponsor.”

She nodded. “I wasn’t planning to—but this man showed up at my door a few weeks ago—”

“And you didn’t find that suspicious?” George demanded.

Mitchell frowned at him, but he also looked curiously at Lucy, who shrugged uncomfortably. “I did,” she admitted. “But I couldn’t . . . I finally had the chance to, to help someone.” She kept her eyes on George for a moment, then looked away again, down at her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

“That’s where you got the newspaper clipping,” Mitchell surmised.

She nodded. “Among other things.” At Mitchell’s encouragement, she elaborated. “A whole file. Werewolf lore, sightings, histories. Some of it’s quite old. Other newspaper clippings, too.” She looked at George. “Including one about my sister.”

“I should like to see that file,” Loki murmured. He sat back and regarded her for a few moments. He didn’t need magic to see that she wasn’t lying, that her desire to help George was genuine, as was her pain that she had not been able to help her sister. But her “cure,” if attempted as her theory stood now, was as likely to kill George as it was to stop his transformation. Anyone with magical knowledge could see that. Which suggested . . .

He leaned forward again, his elbows resting on his thighs. “What is his name?” he asked gently. “Your sponsor.”

She looked taken aback at the question. “Kemp,” she said. “Patrick Kemp.”

George made a low moan in his throat. Mitchell let out a disgusted huff, and Annie muttered, “I knew it.” Lucy cast a bewildered look around the circle.

“You know him, I take it.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Loki replied. He looked around at his housemates and rose. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

***

The four housemates retired to the kitchen, leaving Lucy to cool her heels in the lounge. She felt no chill around her knees, which suggested that Scamp had gone with them. The friendlier of the two cats—Elizabeth, she remembered—hopped up onto the love seat to investigate her, while the other took over in the spot Loki had vacated on the sofa. She scratched under the cat’s chin while she tried to put her reeling thoughts into some semblance of order.

Ghosts were real. Magic was real—well. So Loki said. She wasn’t sure what authority a school janitor had to say so, but—he _had_ revealed Scamp to her by just touching her hand. That could have been a trick, but he was also right; she had seen too much to really believe there was no such thing as magic. And the others seemed to defer to him, which suggested they knew something she didn’t. A few things, it seemed.

She strained to make out words in the lowered voices that drifted out from the kitchen, but couldn’t hear anything that made sense. What did they know about her mysterious underwriter? He had disappeared without a trace weeks before, though the promised funds had continued arriving. Perhaps Mitchell and his friends knew what had happened to him.

“Sorry,” Annie apologized when they returned a few minutes later and reclaimed their seats. Elizabeth immediately abandoned Lucy for Loki’s lap.

Lucy shrugged. She supposed it was a little rude for them to have left, but she couldn’t really blame them for wanting a moment to discuss what she had proposed alone. She waited to see what they would tell her.

Mitchell sighed. “This is sort of a long story,” he said. His hand went to his chest, right over his heart. “It started a few weeks ago, when I got stabbed.”

Lucy did her best to follow the story that the housemates traded among themselves: A resurrected vampire, a priest—that would be Kemp—being manipulated by some sort of demon, which wanted to force Annie to “cross over.” Lucy latched onto this last as something she could comprehend, and the answer to the possibility that had been bothering her since she learned Annie was a ghost.

“Ghosts don’t all stay?” she asked.

Annie shook her head. “Most don’t. You’re supposed to resolve your unfinished business, if you have any, and then a door appears and you’re supposed to go through it.”

“And you haven’t?”

Annie grinned ruefully. “I _have,_ that’s sort of the problem. I was supposed to go through, and I didn’t.”

Lucy sat up straighter, curious. “Why not?”

“Who gets to decide what your unfinished business is?” she asked philosophically. Annie glanced at Loki, and the look they exchanged spoke volumes. Annie shrugged and spread her hands. “I wasn’t ready to go.”

A moment passed in silence, during which Lucy fidgeted and looked at her hands. “You’re thinking about your sister, aren’t you?” Mitchell asked. 

Lucy nodded. “Is there any way to tell . . .?”

“I don’t think she’s here,” Annie said gently. “I think you’d know.”

Lucy slumped a little. “I suppose I would,” she agreed, though she searched her memory for any traces of strange happenings after Laura’s death that might be explained by her sister’s continued presence. Nothing that she could think of, but she set the idea aside to revisit later. Perhaps a visit home would be in order.

“In any event,” Loki said, picking up the thread of conversation, “I believe that Azriel is using you, through Kemp.”

“But why?” Mitchell asked. “I mean,” he went on, “if most of this has been about Annie—”

Loki sighed. “I think it is to do with all of us.” He glanced around at his friends. “We are a rather unusual household.”

“We break the rules,” George murmured, speaking up at last. He looked at Mitchell. “Vampire and werewolves aren’t meant to be friends.”

“And ghosts aren’t meant to stick around for so long,” Annie added.

“I’m not sure I understand what any of this has to do with me,” Lucy said.

“If your theory is correct, and you’re able to stop George’s transformation, then it changes the balance of things here,” Loki said, gesturing to take in the house and its occupants. He looked at his friend, his expression troubled. “If it isn’t, then it will very likely kill you.” George shuddered. “Either way, I think, according to Azriel’s logic, the balance is righted.”

Lucy looked down at her hands. She had wanted so badly to help George where she couldn’t help her sister, but it seemed it was to come to nothing. Worse than nothing. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Mitchell patted her shoulder. “You weren’t to know,” he said. Lucy accepted the comfort as best she could, but couldn’t help thinking, _Laura was right. I should have abandoned this long ago._ Now she was causing even more pain.

There was a long moment of silence, and then George spoke into the stillness. “I want to try it.”

His housemates all looked at him in disbelief. “You _what_?” Mitchell exclaimed, at the same time Annie cried, “George, you can’t!”

“I want to try it,” George repeated, his voice stronger this time. He turned to Loki. “If you can account for, for the magical aspects that Lucy hasn’t, then I want to try it.”

Loki studied his face. His gazed flickered to Lucy, and then back to his friend. “I will not let you do it if I do not think it is safe,” he said.

“I know,” George replied. “That’s why I trust you.” He didn’t look at Lucy.

Loki hesitated. “I will see what I can do,” he said at last. To Lucy, he said, “Perhaps I will come see your facility this weekend. I would like to see it, either way, and to look at the file Kemp gave you.”

Feeling as though the conversation had overtaken her ability to comprehend it, Lucy tried to gather the threads. “I’m not sure I understand what you want to do,” she said. “If what I’m missing is—is magic—then I don’t know . . .” 

“I intend to fill in the gaps in your work, if I can,” he replied.

When Lucy still looked blank, Mitchell said, “Loki’s a sorcerer.”

Lucy glanced at him, fighting to keep her equilibrium. Magic was real, certainly there must be sorcerers, but to be sitting across from one—to be speaking of these things as if they were a matter of course— She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. Mitchell looked sympathetic. “I know it’s a lot,” he said. “Take your time.”

She shook her head. She had been interested in _science_ , certain there was a _scientific_ basis for all she had seen, even the things she couldn’t begin to understand. There was always an explanation, a rational one, and that meant control was always within reach, except—except— “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” she muttered to herself, trying to find purchase on the familiar aphorism.

Loki nodded approvingly. “As is any force or power that your science cannot explain,” he said. He held up a hand and a glowing orb appeared above it, its pale green light giving the faces around her an unearthly cast. 

Lucy gasped, causing Mitchell to shoot Loki a disapproving look, but the appearance of the orb also gave her something to grasp, a visible sign of the heretofore mysterious magic they had been discussing. She reached a hand out, and at Loki’s encouraging nod, cupped it around the light.

It was warm, and not quite solid. She thought she might be able to pass her hand through it, but when she tried she found she couldn’t, as if the air had thickened. Her fingers tingled where they touched it. She drew her hand back, focusing on Loki again. “How—?” she began, and then broke off. The pale glow of the magical orb brought his features into sharp relief, and transformed his eyes from a soft blue-green to a piercing malachite. The nagging familiarity about him finally fell into place.

“You’re him,” she said. “ _That_ Loki.”

He smiled, letting the orb fade. “Yes,” he agreed. “Perhaps you are convinced of my magical abilities, now?”

She nodded faintly, looking around at the other three housemates. “How—?” she repeated, then pivoted. “I mean, what are you doing here? Don’t you run around with the Avengers and live in, in Asgard, or something?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes. Mostly, I live here.”

“And . . . mop floors?” Not that that should surprise her. It seemed to be the occupation of choice for this household.

“In the fall I will begin a course of study to be a teacher,” he said, a little stiffly.

Lucy blinked, further taken aback, but she clamped down on any further comments. She was probably being rude, and it was probably not a very good idea to be rude to a magical alien whose brother was _Thor_ and was friends with the Avengers. She thought it wise to stop talking.

Mitchell shifted beside her. “Look, I think we could all use a little time to gather ourselves, before anyone makes any decisions.” He looked significantly at George, who was studiously avoiding everyone’s gaze. Turning back to Lucy, he went on, “Kemp is locked safely away, but if he contacts you . . .”

“I’ll call you,” Lucy agreed quickly, wondering just what they had done to get him locked away. Mitchell had been vague on that point, saying only that they had been able to leverage their connection with the Avengers to make sure he couldn’t do any more harm, at least for the time being.

At the door, Mitchell gave her a sympathetic smile. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “Are you going to be all right?”

Lucy returned it shakily. “After a hot bath and a glass of wine, I will be.” _Make that a few glasses of wine,_ she thought. _And maybe some whiskey._

Seeming to read her thoughts, Mitchell patted her shoulder. “Take care of yourself,” he said, and watched from the doorway until she started her car and drove off.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chekhov's gun (or psychic, as it were) is fired, and things get real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your patience on the longer delay with this chapter. I think it will have been worth the wait...

The four housemates sat in a long, exhausted silence after Lucy left. Mitchell collapsed back onto the love seat after he walked her out, letting his head fall back and his eyes close. George remained huddled in his corner of the sofa. Beside him, Loki rested his chin on his fist and stared off in to the middle distance, mulling over the evening’s conversation while he absently petted the kittens with his free hand. That Lucy was another pawn in Azriel’s game was clear; Loki just wished he could see more clearly what that game _was_. What did he want? What did he gain from breaking up their little household? And—perhaps more to the point—what did the four of them have, together, that Azriel feared? Because it stood to reason that, if he wanted so badly to . . . to neutralize one or more of them, then together they must have some power over him. But what, and how could they use it? 

At length Annie shifted in her seat, disturbing Scamp’s doze, and asked George, “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shrugged, looking sullen. “What’s there to talk about?”

Mitchell snorted. “Come on, George.”

George sighed, conceding. He turned to Loki. “Could it work?”

Loki nodded reluctantly. “It could stop your transformation, yes. Theoretically. But it is not a cure.”

“Could it . . .” George gestured vaguely. “I don’t know, over time, could it . . . weaken the wolf? If it doesn’t get to—to manifest, then could it be, sort of, killed? Like, stifled?”

“No,” Loki replied. George slumped. “It doesn’t work like that,” Loki went on, as gently as he could. “The wolf is part of you. Killing it would mean killing you.”

George digested that for a moment, and then scowled and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. The wolf is not—” He shuddered. “It’s _in_ me. It’s not _me_.”

“George,” Mitchell said, looking pained, but George cut him off with another emphatic shake of his head.

“It isn’t me,” he repeated, his mouth twisting. “It infected me, and it—” He broke off. He battled with himself visibly for a few moments, then got to his feet. “I can’t—I can’t talk about this right now. I’m going to bed.”

When his door had closed upstairs, Mitchell said, “Give him time. He’ll come around, at least to talking about it.”

“You think?” Annie asked. At Mitchell’s questioning look, she said, “Well, in all the time we’ve known him, he’s gone from talking about it like it’s doomed him, to not talking about it at all.”

“And that’s a bad change?”

“It is if he hasn’t really dealt with it,” Annie pointed out. “He’s just avoiding it. And if he really means what he just said . . .”

Mitchell’s expression turned troubled, and he cast a worried glance up the stairs. “Yeah,” he agreed after a moment.

Loki followed his gaze, recalling with painful clarity how he had tried to disavow the Jotun part of him because he believed he harbored a monster in his blood. It had taken him a long time to accept that, although the Aesir form he had assumed as an infant in Odin’s arms was the one he considered to be his true form, he might have another from the land of his birth. A chill went through him. Something he was _still_ working on accepting, he acknowledged. With a great deal of help from many quarters.

George wished to deny that the wolf was a part of him, but Loki could sense in the magic that waxed and waned with the phases of the moon that it was rooted in some deep part of his friend. Nor was it an infection, as George felt. Loki didn’t know how Mitchell thought about his vampire nature in relation to his human self, but he thought he could be excused for thinking of it as an infection—a dark magic that sought to twist his humanity into something unrecognizable with its hunger for cruelty and death.

The magic that affected George was something different. It smelled of pine sap and snow and the rich scent of leaves disintegrating into soil, overlaid with the salt and metal tang of blood and fresh meat. Hunting smells. It was as if the werewolf magic had tapped into and woken some primal, violent aspect of him—traits that his gentle friend would rather not acknowledge, but that were undoubtedly his. Loki wasn’t sure it would be possible to disentangle George from the wolf without doing irreparable harm to him.

Mitchell waved a hand in front of his face, and Loki blinked, realizing he had asked him a question.

“I said, do you think you can use Lucy’s research to find a cure for George?” Mitchell repeated.

Loki frowned, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “I do not like speaking of finding a cure,” he said. “It makes it sound as if George is ill, or broken, and I do not believe he is.” Mitchell opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Loki continued, “To answer your question, no. I do not think so, anyway. We may be able to—to contain the wolf and prevent him from transforming on a given full moon, but a longer-term measure . . .” He trailed off, then voiced his earlier thoughts. “I fear it would do a great deal of damage to him to try to separate the wolf. It is part of him, whatever he may say.” He paused for a moment. “Perhaps containment is a good idea, though. I know George worries a great deal that he will hurt someone when he transforms.” He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled it through his hair. 

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here,” Mitchell prompted after a moment.

“What happened when he took sedatives before his transformation?” Loki asked. “You’ve mentioned it a few times, but all I know was that it was not a desirable outcome.”

“It was like the wolf started trying to take over when it wasn’t the full moon,” Annie said. “He started getting really angry over nothing, and swearing uncontrollably. Like someone else was in control of him when he was speaking, if that makes sense.”

Loki nodded. The description didn’t surprise him. 

“Do you think that’s what would happen if he didn’t transform?” Mitchell asked.

“I think it’s likely,” Loki said. “But I will still go examine Lucy’s work, and see if there is anything I can do so that he may try it safely. And I want to see the information that Kemp gave her.”

Mitchell nodded, stifling a yawn.

“I think we could all use some sleep,” Annie said, noticing. She shooed Scamp from her lap and got to her feet. “Things will be clearer in the morning. They always are.”

Loki hoped so. He turned out the lights and followed his housemates up the stairs.

***

George went to bed, but he didn’t sleep. He could hear the murmur of voices from downstairs, too low to make out words. He shouldn’t have been able to hear even that much. Ordinary humans couldn’t. His hearing wasn’t as sharp now as it was closer to the full moon, but it was sharper even at the new moon that it ever had been before the wolf.

He didn’t want to think about it. He rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head to try to shut out his housemates’ voices. It helped a little . He knew they were talking about him, about what Lucy had said. He knew it was because they cared, but just now he could do without Mitchell’s watery optimism and Loki’s caution and Annie’s concern for his well-being. It confused him, sorting through their responses as well as his own. Lucy’s suggestion that she might be able to cure him had awakened a desperation that surprised even him with its intensity. He could have a normal life again. He wouldn’t have to worry about what he might do with the wolf took over. The nightmare that had begun that night in Scotland could finally end.

But he also felt angry. He had been happy. Nina accepted him as he was, and he had his friends and his quiet—well, sometimes quiet—life, and if it wasn’t everything he had imagined for himself when he was a straight-A student at university, it was good. Different, unexpected, but . . . good. He had begun to imagine a future that was, if not normal, well—for a long time he hadn’t imagined any kind of future for himself at all. And normal, he had begun to realize, was overrated.

But if he were no longer a werewolf? What would he lose? It was strange to think that the thing that had taken everything from him had also given him a great deal. But he _would_ lose something, of that he was certain. Not that he expected to be expelled from the household or shunned by his friends, should he no longer be a supernatural creature, but . . . something would be missing.

He turned over and pushed the blankets back to his waist, hot and restless. What did the wolf offer that he wanted? An excruciatingly painful transformation—one that would, no doubt, shorten his life just from the strain it put on his heart? Waking up in the woods after the full moon, filthy and exhausted and naked? Endless fear that someone would wander into the wolf’s path and be killed or changed? Terror that that someone might be Nina?

No. He wanted none of those things. And if the wolf heightened his senses and made him feel a certain buzzing connection to some natural spaces, so what? If it had led him down this path to his friends, well, it was sheer luck he had found them, not the wolf. It had no connection to any of them. It was just the thing inside him—his curse, his disease. He hated it, and he wanted to be rid of it. It did no one any good, least of all himself.

His resolve gave him little peace. Eventually the murmuring voices from downstairs stopped, and he heard the creak of footsteps and whispered goodnights. The unobtrusive sounds of his housemates getting ready for bed soothed him, a little, but it was a long time before he slept.

***

Loki rose early on Saturday as usual, went for his run, and then waited impatiently for Mitchell to rise so he could get Lucy’s contact information and arrange to meet her. Perspective gained from a night’s sleep had left him even more certain of his assessment from last night, but he was nonetheless anxious to learn more about her research, and to see the information Kemp had gathered and passed to her. Perhaps there would be some clues there as to Azriel’s agenda.

He occupied himself the best he could. He put in a load of washing, helped Annie with the accumulated dishes from the night before, and tidied his room. Out of chores to do, he tried to lay aside his concerns about Lucy’s “cure” and the effect it was having on George in favor of a problem he could do something about. He gathered his small stack of spell books from his room and carried them downstairs to the kitchen, along with a pad of paper and a pen. 

Annie set a cup of tea at his elbow and slid into the seat beside him. “What’s this?” she asked. “For George?”

Loki shook his head. “I’ll need to see Lucy’s work first,” he explained. He elected not to elaborate, for the time being. Instead, he pulled a book off the stack and opened it to its chapter on portals, angling it so Annie could see. “This is to try to keep our friend Azriel where he belongs.”

“Oooh.” Annie leaned closer, though the book’s contents meant little to her. This was the first Loki had mentioned of his plan to her—though, in fairness, it had been a busy week, and it had only been half-formed when he’d told Thor about it. She thumbed the pages. “You think there’s a spell in here that will help?”

“Maybe.” Loki took a sip of his tea. “Portals and boundaries between realities are almost all unique, so is unlikely there is a particular spell in any of these that will work. But I got a good enough look at the one at the church that I think I can find the right elements for a spell to strengthen it.” And after a week of rest and limited use of his recovering magic, he was finally feeling equal to the task.

Annie looked uncertain. “And that’s . . . safe?” she asked. “I mean, writing your own spell for something like that?”

“Quite safe,” Loki assured her. It was even mostly true. A comparison occurred to him, and he said, “It is like when you look at several recipes for the same meal, and then create your own based on your preferences. An experienced cook knows what goes together, and what will produce a foul mess.” In his first months on Midgard, Loki had made a few of the latter.

Annie’s eyes twinkled, as if she were recalling the same thing. “Like marinara sauce with or without garlic,” she said.

“Is still marinara sauce,” Loki agreed. “Although this is more like . . .” He cast about for an apt metaphor.

“Boeuf Bourguignon?” Annie suggested, pitching her voice to imitate the American chef Julia Child.

“Precisely.”

“Can I do anything to help?”

He shook his head. “Maybe later. To start with, I’m comparing the mechanics of different spells to find the best method for reinforcing this kind of boundary.” He pulled the book back toward him. “There’s no actual portal, it’s as if our reality has, has grown thin in that place . . .” He trailed off into a murmur, the book in front of him absorbing most of his attention. He frowned and made a note on the pad of paper he had set out beside it.

“All right.” Annie’s hand was cool on his back, and her lips felt like snowflakes on his cheek when she bent to kiss him. He leaned into her. “I’ll see you later,” she said, and vanished, leaving him to his work.

***

Since she’d met Sykes, Annie’s days had fallen into a new routine. She rose early in the mornings with Loki as she always had, and kept him company after his run while he ate his breakfast and drank his tea. After he left for work, though, instead of settling down to read, as she had taken to doing, she took Scamp and met up with Sykes, and they wandered together—first in Totterdown, then farther afield through Bristol, and Sykes gave Annie lessons in ghosting. 

Most of what Sykes had to teach her was control. In addition to reading auras—a skill that was becoming second nature—she fine-tuned her ability to transport herself short (and growing) distances, to anchor on to people and things, and to control how solid she was. She couldn’t manifest as a fully corporeal body, but there were degrees to the physical presence she could take on: misty and insubstantial enough to pass through walls, or corporeal enough to sit in a chair or pick up and move an object. She had been making those changes unconsciously, but now she learned she could will herself even more solid, give herself weight and substance, though it was tiring and she couldn’t hold the change for very long. Since the men behind the door often reached through to their plane through televisions and radio, she had also learned how to turn electronics on and off with her mind, first on her own, and then pushing through Sykes’s psychic blocks to do it, simulating the kinds of barriers she might face from the men behind the door. She gained more control and strength in her abilities to use her mind to manipulate objects, too. Sykes had taken her out to the edge of town to practice that one in a little-used park. Annie thought she might be able to pick up a car if she had a mind to, though she hadn’t yet tried. (She thought Mitchell would never forgive her if she dropped the Volvo.)

Sykes sketched a salute as she walked up to where he stood waiting on their usual corner. She returned it with a grin and fell in beside him. 

“Where to, soldier?” she asked, as they began to walk.

He shrugged. Sometimes he had a destination in mind, but more often they just walked in comfortable silence, finding opportunities for Annie to practice her skills. They strolled by an electronics shop with several televisions in the window and she turned them off with a thought, prompting a confused exclamation within followed by baffled silence when she turned them back on. Sykes smirked, and Annie permitted herself a little glow of pleasure at his approval. He had been reluctant to teach her, wary of the responsibility of taking on a student for reasons that Annie suspected went back to his experience in the war. Seeing him take pleasure in her success meant he was letting his guard down, at least a little. She knew it wasn’t her responsibility to fix him, but it was in her nature to want to salve pain when she saw it. His gradual warming to her and—to some extent—her friends, pleased her as much as her growing strength and confidence in her abilities.

As they wandered into Southville, a crowd of people gathered at the entrance to a small theatre in an old storefront caught her attention. She glanced at Sykes, who shrugged, and they crossed the street to investigate.

A sign in the window proclaimed, “ALAN CORTEZ’S PSYCHIC EXPERIENCE,” the words superimposed over an image of a mustached man in a brown velvet suit on a stage in front of a purple curtain. Beside her, Sykes snorted.

Annie glanced sidelong at him. As a rule, they had been avoiding psychics and mediums, knowing there were some among Azriel’s agents, but this man was almost surely a fake. In Annie’s (limited but growing) experience, real magic-users tended to keep a lower profile. Though the crowd that had gathered suggested that Mr. Cortez had at least a few people fooled.

“What do you think?” she asked, a smile quirking her mouth. “Shall we find out what all the fuss is about?”

Sykes hesitated. For all that he had prepared her well, he was averse to any possibly risky situation. For her part, Annie was getting impatient. Not that she was so eager to face Azriel’s agents, but she didn’t like slinking away from even the hint of danger.

Perhaps sensing Annie’s mood, after a moment Sykes shrugged. “Why not?” he replied. “Perhaps Mr. Cortez will surprise us.”

It was Annie’s turn to snort. “I doubt it.”

They made their way through the crowd outside and into a shabby lobby, where ticket takers were trying futilely to organize the patrons into lines as they entered the auditorium. At Annie’s feet, Scamp gave a sudden excited yip and trotted off through the sea of legs, her shaggy tail wagging, to jump up on a young woman in an usher’s uniform at the other end of the lobby. To Annie’s surprise, the woman knelt to pet Scamp, laughing when the little dog stretched up to lick her face. As she and Sykes crossed the lobby to her, Annie scolded herself for not paying better attention. The young woman was obviously a ghost; Annie shouldn’t have been surprised. Her aura didn’t reveal her to be dangerous, though, so Annie went up to her and knelt on Scamp’s other side.

“Is she yours?” the woman asked, laughter in her voice. She had a Scottish accent. “I’ve never seen a ghost dog before!”

“I suppose she is, yeah,” Annie replied. Scamp _was_ rather attached to her, out of all of the housemates. “My friends and I, we rescued her from a churchyard.”

The woman looked up at her, mouth opening as if she were about to ask a question, but as soon as she saw Annie’s face her eyes went wide and her smile vanished. She remained frozen there for a moment, but then she grabbed Annie’s hand and pulled her to her feet. “You have to get out of here,” she said, dragging her through the crowd, through a side wall in the theater and into an alley.

“What?” Annie asked when they finally came to a halt, breathless. “Why?” Scamp had followed and leaned against her legs, tail still wagging gently. A moment later Sykes emerged into the alley as well, looking alarmed.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

The girl shook her head. “There isn’t time. You have to go,” she said, turning back to Annie. “They’re waiting for you.”

Sykes went white. He grabbed Annie’s arm and began to pull her out of the alley, but she dug in her heels and pulled her arm away.

“Wait a minute,” she said, looking from him back to the girl in the usher’s uniform. “Tell me what’s going on. Who’s waiting for me?”

“You know the answer to that,” Sykes snapped, reaching for her again. “And if she’s telling the truth, she’s right. We have to go.”

“No,” Annie said.

Sykes blinked and pulled his hand back. “No?”

“No,” she repeated. She turned back to her new acquaintance. “What’s your name?”

The girl blinked as well, her expression the mirror image of Sykes’s. “Robin.”

“Robin.” Annie took her hands. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Please?”

Robin sighed and sagged back against the outer wall of the theater. “The men behind the door want you,” she said.

“I know. And they have agents.”

She nodded, looking miserable. “Alan’s one of them.”

Annie’s eyebrows climbed. “You mean he’s for real?”

“Oh, yes!” Robin’s face lit, and then fell. “I’m protecting him, too. His gift is real, however all this looks.” She gestured. “He helps people—helps ghosts—make their peace with whoever they’ve left behind and move on. But he’s overwhelmed by it, all the voices clamoring for his attention, see.” Annie nodded. She did see. “I try to help,” Robin went on. “Keep the others under control, so they can talk to him one at a time, but . . . I think he made a deal.”

“A deal?” That was Sykes, his mouth pinched.

Robin nodded once in his direction, and then turned back to Annie. “Deliver you and he won’t hear the voices anymore. I heard him talking to someone about it a few weeks ago, and I hear him sometimes at night, talking to himself about it. Crying. I don’t think he knows I’m listening.”

Annie’s heart swelled with sympathy. It was plain enough that Robin was in love with Cortez, even without reading her aura. “Thank you,” she said. She released Robin’s hands and stepped back, think. She could—she probably _should_ —take her new friend’s advice and leave, but what then? She was tired of looking over her shoulder. She turned to Sykes. “I’m going in.”

His eyes widened. “You can’t!” he cried, at the same time Robin said, “No!”

Annie pursed her lips. “Can’t I?” His mouth worked. When he couldn’t seem to form his protest, Annie went on, her voice softening, “Look, it’s going to happen eventually, and this way I’m not caught by surprise.” Her words evinced perhaps more confidence than she was feeling right now. She swallowed around a suddenly dry tongue.

Sykes’s mouth worked in silent protest for a few moments more, and then his shoulders slumped. Annie licked her lips.

“Look,” she said, “if you really don’t think I’m ready, then we’ll go, but—”

“You’re ready.” His voice was hoarse, but he didn’t hesitate. His eyes looked haunted.

Annie licked her lips again, not sure if that was really the answer she wanted to hear. “Okay.” She smiled nervously. “Looks like it’s final exam time. Any last tips?”

He nodded and took a deep breath, assuming his military posture. The facade couldn’t quite hide his worry, though. “When the door appears, you have to make yourself solid. As solid as you can. Think of all the things that keep you here, and let them be your anchors. Then, you just . . .” He gestured. “Push it closed.”

“Make myself solid. I can do that.”

“One more thing,” Sykes said. “There’s only one passing grade. Remember that. You get an A+, or you’re on the other side, and once you’re there, it’s forever.”

Annie gulped. “Very reassuring, thanks.” 

A hint of his sardonic smile appeared. He gripped her shoulder. “You can do this,” he said.

Annie swallowed the self-deprecating response that rose up in her throat— _I hope so!_ —and instead she said, “I know.” But she wished that Loki were there, so she could hold him and tell him she loved him—just in case, and for luck. She set her jaw and held on to that desire, knowing that it was her connection with him, more than anything else, that would root her here and take away the power from the men behind the door.

“Well,” she said brightly. “Should we go have a psychic experience?”

***

Inside, the auditorium was dark. The show had already started. Alan Cortez paced the stage, in the same velvet suit and turtleneck he wore in his poster. But he accurately relayed the message of the ghost standing on the stage with him in his booming voice to an audience member who stood tremulously in a spotlight below, holding a microphone. When he had finished, the ghost looked around expectantly, then seemed to deflate a little when no door appeared. Annie couldn’t help feeling relieved. The ghost sighed, thanked him, and vanished. 

Cortez let another pause stretch out before he asked, as if thinking aloud, “Who is speaking to me?” He lifted the hand not holding the microphone to his temple, as several spotlights began swinging around the auditorium. He followed them, until his eyes fell on the spot against the wall where Annie, Sykes, and Robin stood. 

He went utterly still. Beside him, a man wearing a wet suit and flippers stepped out onto the stage, but Cortez didn’t seem to notice the ghost. He stared at Annie, pained recognition on his face. Annie couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, caught up in something so much larger than him. “I’m sorry,” he said helplessly.

“It’s all right,” Annie said, and meant it. His struggle was written all over his aura. No wonder he had sought to sever his connection with the afterlife by whatever means he could. She felt strangely calm.

Cortez swallowed hard and turned his attention to the ghost on the stage beside him. He resumed his pose with his fingers pressed against his temple, though Annie could read the strain in his posture. “I have someone here who wishes to speak to . . .”

“Orla,” the ghost supplied.

“Orla,” Cortez repeated. “Is there an Orla here?”

A woman in the audience raised a hand and stood tentatively. An assistant dashed to her with a microphone.

“Get ready,” Sykes murmured beside Annie.

Annie closed her eyes and thought of Loki as he had been that morning, bent over his books at the kitchen table. She thought of her walks with Scamp, and her long talks with Mitchell when they were both up late into the night, and George and the happiness the four of them had built in the house where she had died. She imagined all of it as ropes binding her to the house and to the world of the living, where she still had work to do. Where she still had living to do.

When she opened her eyes, she was standing in front of a door. The man in the wet suit and flippers was there, looking down at her with hard eyes. He reached for her. “Time for you to go, little girl,” he said.

Annie stepped to the side, away from the door, and met his gaze defiantly. “No,” she said firmly.

His expression hardened. He reached for her again, and Annie once again sidestepped away from him, feeling her steps heavy on the worn carpet.

“You can’t escape,” he said.

Annie felt her lips curve into a smile, as realization hit her. She felt as if she were carved from ice. She let out a cold little laugh. “You don’t see, do you?” she asked. “I already have.”

The door opened. With all her might, Annie held on to the imaginary ropes that bound her to her life, her afterlife, her friends. There was a flash of light, blinding in its intensity, and then she was plunged into darkness.


	23. Chapter 23

Loki was so absorbed in his work that he barely noticed when Mitchell and then George came downstairs. The part of him that did was loathe to interrupt his study of the grimoires. Recognizing the signs that Loki was deep in potentially sensitive magical work, his two housemates moved quietly around the kitchen and took their breakfasts to the lounge.

By early afternoon his work had paid off. He sat back and looked at the top page of his note pad with satisfaction. He had put together a combination of three different spells, which, with a physical anchor on this plane, should be able to reinforce the thinning boundary that Azriel could reach across. Loki’s stomach rumbled, the sensation pulling him back into his body along with a growing headache and thirst. He tucked the page carefully into one of the grimoires and set it aside, then heated up a plate of leftover pizza from the night before and took that and a coke into the lounge.

George and Mitchell were watching television with the volume turned all the way down and the closed captions on. Loki set his plate on the coffee table and took his accustomed seat on the couch. “Thank you,” he said, nodding to the television. “But you did not need to keep the sound off.”

“We prefer you not getting distracted when you’re doing magic,” Mitchell replied with a grin. “I don’t want to get turned into a frog. What were you working on?”

Loki thought he saw a flicker of disappointment on George’s face when he told them, so after he finished explaining he said, “I need to talk to Lucy before I can start working on your—” he broke off, searching in vain for a word other than “cure”—“thing. I won’t know what will be needed before I see her work.” He elected not to elaborate on his suspicion that there would be little he could do to make the process safe for George, even as a method of containment. He was too tired, and it was at least still worth seeing what she had done, if only for confirmation of his predictions. Perhaps he would be surprised.

George nodded and looked down at his hands. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Of course.” Loki reached across the space between them to place a hand on George’s shoulder. He wished he knew the right words to call him back to the place he had been just a few days before. Would it help George to hear what Loki had told the others, that he didn’t think George needed to be cured? 

He was still trying to think of something to say when the lights went out. 

“What the—?” Mitchell began, looking around. The television turned to static, suddenly at full volume, with a low bass hum underlying it. George put his hands to his ears. Mitchell scrambled for the remote. Loki, who had glanced toward the set when the noise started, found he couldn’t look away. The snow on the screen and the loud _shush_ from the speakers drew him in, making the room around him fall away. He thought he saw shadows moving about and heard faint voices in the noise, just beyond comprehension. He leaned toward it, half-rising from his seat. Mitchell mashed at the power button on the remote and the screen went black.

Loki blinked and sank back down onto the couch. He gave his head a shake, feeling as if he were coming out of a trance. George cautiously lowered his hands. “What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Mitchell replied, his eyes wide.

A noise came from the stairs, like something heavy falling, tumbling over the risers until it came to rest on the landing in the entryway. A body.

Annie’s body. She landed heavily on the tile floor and lay still, blood spreading out beneath her head. As if in a dream, Loki heard himself call her name. He sprang from his seat and ran to her.

***

When Annie could see again, she was standing in the entryway of her house, looking down at her own body: limbs askew, her neck at an unnatural angle, blood spreading in a ruby stain on the white tile under her head. Studying it, Annie felt curiously detached. _So that’s what I looked like,_ she thought. She glanced up, half expecting to see Owen standing at the top of the stairs, triumph and shock warring on his features—but the landing was empty. Sykes pressed against the wall beside the door, white-faced. When Annie turned a questioning glance on him, he shook his head, as bewildered as she was.

“Poor little me,” a voice said. It took a moment for Annie to recognize it as her own. She looked down and saw that the body at her feet had opened its eyes and was looking back at her with a cold, hard gaze. “I fell down the stairs and now I’m dead.”

Annie suppressed a shudder. “Yeah,” she agreed. “I am.”

“Poor little me. My fiance did it. He didn’t love me at all.” The voice was like Annie’s, and yet not at all. It was mocking, contemptuous. Annie looked into the eyes of the thing that wore her face and saw that it hated her and wanted to possess her.

But she didn’t feel any fear. When she answered, she felt only sadness for the girl she had been, the girl who had fallen—been pushed—down the stairs and died. “No. I really don’t think that he did.”

Her corpse smiled. “Time for you to go, little girl.” A door appeared at its feet, opened slightly, white light pouring through. 

Annie stepped back, as she had before, anchoring herself to this reality with all her strength. “No,” she said. “I’m not finished here yet.”

It snarled. “That’s not for you to decide!”

A flicker of movement in the lounge caught her attention, and Annie looked up to see Loki jumping to his feet, eyes wide, his lips forming her name. Annie felt a rush of power from the thing at her feet. Before she could cry out, Loki was frozen in midstep. Behind him, George sat stock-still on the couch, and Mitchell half-risen from the red chair, an expression of alarm on his face. Annie’s hand went to her mouth to silence the cry that wanted to spring from her lips. She would not show weakness.

It laughed and turned its head to look at Sykes. “Have you told her what you did?” it asked him, its voice taking on a deeper resonance. 

“N-no.” His feet shuffled as if he were trying to back away, though he was already against the wall. “She doesn’t need to know that.”

Annie flicked a glance toward him. “Sykes, what’s it talking about?” Her own voice had dropped as well, making the question more demand than plea.

He shook his head, his lips trembling.

“All the men who died because of your mistake. Your cowardice.”

He whimpered, sliding down the wall as his knees buckled. Annie heard distant sounds of bombs and gunfire, followed by screams. Sykes let out a sob and covered his head with his arms . He buried his face between his knees.

“Sykes?” Annie asked, then, louder, “Sykes! Focus!” He flinched, as if at a gunshot, but did not look up.

The corpse’s smile widened. “It’s just you and me now, little girl,” it said. “We could eat you up.”

Annie looked at Sykes for a moment longer, captive to his own fear, and then turned back to the corpse at her feet, the thing wearing her body. Somehow, Sykes’s fear made hers dissipate. Her fear was their weapon, and Annie was done being afraid. “Can you?” she asked coldly. She took a step toward it. “Because you don’t seem to be capable of much more than lying there and trying to scare me.” Its expression faltered, and Annie put on a hard smile of her own. “You’re one of his, aren’t you? You’ve put on my face, but you’re his agent. Azriel’s.”

“You belong to him.”

“I don’t belong to anyone!” She stepped forward until the tips of her boots were at its cheek and looked straight down into its face. It made no move to reach for her. “What does he want?” she demanded.

“You’ve attracted his notice. He has a use for you.”

Annie’s lip curled. “Does he, now?” She stepped back. “Well, you can tell him I won’t be used. I have better things to do.” She stepped toward the door.

“Fool!” the thing cried. “We have given you the chance to come willingly! We could drag you to hell any time we wanted!”

Annie turned around, one hand on her hip, and raised an eyebrow. “That’s hardly an argument for my coming with you.” she pointed out. She let her hand fall and walked back toward its head, squatting down so she was close to it. She lowered her voice. “But I don’t think you can. I think you have to keep me scared because you can’t actually _do_ anything. That’s why you’re just lying there.” She shook her head. “I thought you were an army of devils, but you’re not. You’re a magician. You’ve come to the end of your act, and this”—she gestured—“this was your big finish? It’s pretty poor.” She got to her feet again. “You’ve lost your audience.”

It said nothing. Annie walked up to the door and regarded it for a moment. She could feel it pulling at her, but it was weak, easy to resist. Taking her to the place she had died, they had thought to make her vulnerable, but this house made her strong. She had lived and died here, it was true, and then she had found out what it really meant to be alive. And she wasn’t finished.

She thought of all that had happened in this house since George and Mitchell moved in, and all her hopes for the future—many still unformed, but hers. Her future. Her life. Her choices.

She put her hands to the door and pushed.

***

Loki skidded to a halt in the empty entryway and whirled around, flailing his arms to keep his balance. The lights were back on. Sykes crouched against the wall beside the door, covering his head with his hands. As Loki caught his balance, Sykes cautiously raised his head. Annie stood at the bottom of the stairs, her hands held up in front of her as if she were demonstrating she was unarmed to someone. She looked curiously at her hands, then around the house, as if she wasn’t quite sure where she was.

“Annie?” Loki’s voice came out sounding breathless.

Her face broke into a wide smile. Before he could process what was going on, she had thrown her arms around him, laughing and crying at the same time. He returned the embrace on instinct, stammering incoherent questions as he did so. “What—? How—?” Then he stopped trying to ask questions as the pieces began to fall into place. Annie had been holding her hands up as if in surrender—or as if she were pushing against something. Like a door.

He pulled back, holding her shoulders so he could look at her. “Did you—? The door?” He couldn’t seem to form a full sentence. He was too overwhelmed, giddy with fear or relief.

“I did it,” she confirmed, wiping tears from her face.

Behind them, Sykes got shakily to his feet. “I’d call that a pass,” he said. Annie’s gaze shifted to him, her expression growing concerned.

“Is that it, then?” Mitchell asked, coming into the entryway with George at his heels. “It’s over?” He looked back and forth between Sykes and Loki.

“I’d say so,” Sykes replied, his voice still faint.

But the others all glanced at Loki. “What do you think?” Mitchell asked.

He pressed his lips together. “I intend to make sure of it,” he said.

“You found a spell?” Annie asked.

He nodded. “I need to gather a few things, but I think I can do it tonight.”

***

Azriel felt the force of the door closing like a gust of wind that knocked him back several paces. Demons, the girl was strong. Even stronger than she had been. 

He wanted her now more than ever.

He paced the chamber he had created for himself, his hard shoes clicking on the stone floor. The room befit a king of hell, soaring slate walls and dark wood furnishings, lit by flickering candles and a hearth at either end, but where it should have been crowded with servants and supplicants he had only a handful who waited on him. Twice their number did his bidding out in the world, but it wasn’t enough. The girl was the key to his solidifying his power. With a ghost as powerful as Annie Sawyer under his command, the afterlife and all of its domains would be his.

He had been so certain his plan would work. Recalling her to the moment she had died, victim to the man she thought she loved, the man she believed had loved her back despite his abuse, he had thought to make her small, to open her to his influence. Instead she had responded with contempt, seen the limits of his power on the other side, and slammed the door between them.

The candle flames rose higher with his rage, The fires roared in the hearths, reflecting red on the dull gray stones. He needed her _here_ , where his power was great enough to command her, but so far none of his agents had been able to bring her to him.

Azriel smiled suddenly. There was still the priest. Azriel had left the man to rot after his overzealousness had gotten him noticed by the sorcerer, but he could still be useful—especially since chance had placed him in contact with the girl’s killer. In a way, he could not have planned better. The fact that the sorcerer had been the one to set the pieces would only make his victory more satisfying.

***

Loki’s first stop that afternoon was the hardware store, followed by the grocery. That done, he dropped his packages off at the house and walked to Catherine’s tea shop with his improvised spell folded up and tucked in his jeans pocket. It was always good to have a second pair of eyes on a new spell, and he was hoping she and Agnes might be willing to help him shore up the thin boundary between this world and the one beyond the door that lay over the church.

Catherine made a hum of satisfaction as she looked over Loki’s notes in the back room of her tea shop. “Yes, this will certainly work,” she said, nodding as she read. She got out a pencil and added a few notations, turning the paper to show him the additional runes she had drawn. “These will reinforce the boundary further, and keep the spell from deteriorating.

Loki studied them, seeing how they fit into the larger structure of the spell, and nodded. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Anything to help Annie and stop this nonsense. What do you plan to use for an anchor?”

“The church itself.” It seemed the wisest choice. The spell required, an anchor on this plane that would seal the boundary like a cork in a bottle. He didn’t wish to gamble on a rock or even a tree, both of which could be dislodged or moved. The ground itself would not work; its soil was too mobile, moving about with the seasons and the wind and rain. But the church was old; it had been there for a long time and would remain for the foreseeable future. If he bound the spell to its foundations, it would hold strong even if the larger structure fell to ruins.

Catherine nodded approval. “I have something else that may help,” she said, standing up, and disappeared into the hallway leading deeper into the back area of the shop. She emerged a few moments later with a silvery stoppered bottle, about the size of her palm. It fit neatly in Loki’s larger hand. He opened it and peered at the liquid inside, inhaling a sweet woodsy scent.

“What is it?”

“Very old and very rare,” she replied, in a tone that said she would say no more. “Dip the chalk in it before you draw the sigils.”

“Thank you,” he said again. He carefully stoppered the bottle. 

Catherine waved a hand in dismissal and sipped her tea. 

Loki did the same. After a moment he leaned on his elbows. “I plan to work the spell tonight,” he said. “If you or Agnes could lend your power, I would be grateful. The stronger we can make the boundary—” 

Catherine didn’t let him finish. “Of course. Let us try to keep this so-called angel where he belongs for a good long time. I will speak to Agnes, but count on both of us being there. Shall we meet at the church at ten o’clock?”

***

All four housemates piled into Mitchell’s Volvo to go to the church that night. Loki had tried to object, but Annie had pointed out that, with her growing powers, she could act as a lookout while Loki and the witches were spellcasting, and Mitchell and George wouldn’t be left behind.

When they arrived—cloaked in a concealing glamour to hide them from any late-night passersby and the church’s new vicar—Annie set herself up near the church’s entrance, and Loki put George and Mitchell to work pouring a line of salt mixed with iron shavings in a perimeter around the building. Meanwhile he, Catherine, and Agnes set about inscribing the runes for the spell along the stones at the base of the building.

“Thank you for coming,” he said as he handed each of the witches several pieces of chalk and a sheet of paper onto which he had copied his spell.

“We’re happy to help,” Agnes replied. “I’m glad you came to us, this time,” she added, fixing him with a hard look.

Loki grimaced. “I was not expecting—”

“I know,” Agnes cut him off. Her expression softened and she patted his arm. “I only want you to know that you can call on us at any time. We would like to keep you around.”

Loki smiled tightly back, warmed by her expression of friendship but distracted by their task. “And I you,” he murmured.

“Indeed,” Catherine said briskly, tucking her spare pieces of chalk into a pocket. “If you’re quite finished scolding him, I suggest we get started. This is going to take time, and I would like to get some sleep tonight.” She had brought two more flasks similar to the one she had given Loki earlier, and she now handed one to Agnes. They each took a side of the building and began sketching the runes, repeating the string of symbols as they worked along the old stone walls. Loki was grateful for the sweet, earthy scent from Catherine’s flask; it disguised the stench of the magic that leaked out from the thin boundary between worlds. He raised it to his face periodically as he worked, and wondered if it was his imagination that it made him feel refreshed each time that he did—a property of the substance inside, or merely an effect its relief from the smell of rotting things? 

It was nearing midnight by the time they finished inscribing the line of runes all the way around the base of the building. To Loki’s eyes, the white chalk markings glowed softly with magic in the dark. George and Mitchell had long since finished their task and retreated to the edge of the churchyard, where they sat on a low brick wall talking softly so as not to distract the others. Loki walked along the line they had poured to make sure it remained unbroken, then walked to where Annie sat with her eyes closed but her posture alert. He touched her shoulder. Annie opened her eyes, shaking herself a little. “Time?” she asked.

“Time,” he agreed.

She unfolded herself and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Good luck,” she told him, and went to sit with George and Mitchell.

Loki, Catherine, and Agnes stood just outside the line of salt and joined hands. Catherine and Agnes opened their power to him, and Loki felt it rush into him. They each had a distinct scent and color to their magic. Catherine’s was clean and sharp, like lemon and parsley, icy blue in color. Agnes’s power felt warmer and mellower, cinnamon and firewood and soft bronze. Loki took a moment to send a note of gratitude back to both of them along the channel opened between them. Allowing another sorcerer to access and direct one’s power was no small favor, and he appreciated the trust they put in him to allow him to do so.

Beside him, Catherine made an impatient noise, and he smiled, feeling a little pulse of amusement from Agnes, as well. He wove their magic into his green hues, then directed their combined power first into the line of salt and iron, and then into the runes inscribed along the base of the church walls. 

Many of the spells that Loki had read called for chanting, but the words were only a focus for power. He had never had much use for incantations, finding them distracting. Instead, he concentrated on the boundary between worlds and imagined it thickening and growing stronger as he poured power into the earth and the stones of the church to anchor it. It went from thin and transparent to milky to solid and opaque, their braided magic filling every gap and reinforcing each layer. He set the barrier into every molecule of stone and soil within the circle of iron and salt. The runes glowed with a blinding light invisible to anyone without magical sight, and then vanished into the stone.

Loki released Catherine and Agnes’s hands. They were all three breathing heavily, and he saw a sheen of sweat on both their faces to match his own. Loki swayed on his feet.

“Is it done?” Annie asked, hurrying to him. She put her arm around his waist and he let her guide him to the low wall that bordered the path to the church gate. He sank down onto it, his knees wobbly, and nodded.

“I think so.” He raised his head and inhaled deeply. He smelled only the night air and the faint scents of the power stirred up by many generations of faithful churchgoers, a combination of wine and incense and old stone. He smiled. “Yes.”

“The boundary is closed,” Catherine agreed, coming to sit beside him. She patted his hand. “Nice work.”

Loki felt a flush creep up his face at her praise. He looked at his hands, feeling—a little absurdly—abashed. He was almost certainly many centuries Catherine’s senior, but she felt to him like one of the seasoned teachers at his school whose praise meant all the more for its rarity.

Agnes collapsed onto the wall on Catherine’s other side. After a few moments she gave a tug on Catherine’s arm and said, “Come on. Cinnamon rolls for everyone.”

Catherine raised an acerbic eyebrow. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“So?”

The two of them looked at one another in silence for several moments, an impudent smile on Agnes’s face. At last Catherine said, “I suppose you’re right.” She turned to Loki. “Cinnamon roll?”

“ _Please_ ”

Agnes laughed. Catherine sighed heavily. “I guess you all had better come to the tea shop, then.” She got to her feet, and Loki heard her say to Agnes, as they walked to their car with their arms around each other, “I meant what I said about wanting to get some sleep tonight.”

Annie put her arm around Loki as he stood up. He leaned into her, though he didn’t need the support to stand. It just felt good to be near her.

“It’s over?” Mitchell asked when they got to the car.

“It’s over,” Loki said. He collapsed into the front seat and closed his eyes. Mitchell pulled out into the road behind Catherine and Agnes and they made their way back to Totterdown.

***

Miles away on the outskirts of Bristol, locked away in his room for the night, Kemp lay awake on his narrow cot and tried not to grind his teeth in frustration. He’d had word from the Brotherhood, finally, but having it was almost worse than not: They were working to free him, but he must be patient. There was video of his apparent breakdown and confession, and his interviewer’s connection to the Avengers was making Kemp’s case particularly intractable. Patience, patience. God would deliver.

While he waited, he deepened his acquaintance with young Owen. Kemp was equally drawn to and repelled by the young man who had killed his fiancee in a jealous rage and now lived in terror of her ghost. What Owen had done was despicable, and he deserved her wrath, deserved to be mad with guilt, as did all men who violated their sacred vows to honor and protect their wives—but Annie had sinned when she refused to pass to the other side after she had delivered her judgment. Was her sin more grievous than her fiance’s? She now attempted to live in this world long past her due, upsetting the very balance of the universe. Why could she not be satisfied with punishing the man who had killed her? What did this world hold, that she felt she must linger?

As he learned from Owen about her strange household, Kemp was beginning to see the contours of Azriel’s plan that he had not revealed to him. A vampire, a werewolf, a ghost, and a sorcerer, living together, _friends_ —as if such creatures could form friendships. Loki had revealed during their interview that Kemp was endangering a friend of his, and Owen’s babble about horns and Norse gods made the connection clear: he was the sorcerer in question. Azriel had surely had him resurrect the vampire Herrick to deal with the vampire Owen said was named Mitchell. That left the werewolf, the only one of the group Kemp had any sympathy for. The young man was cursed, possessed, and no doubt had been deceived by the others in his desperation. At least he could be helped; that had been a welcome bit of news from the Brother who had visited him, that the professor’s work continued apace. 

At the center of this unnatural household stood Annie Sawyer, the dead girl who refused to leave the land of the living. Kemp felt certain it was this household Azriel meant to target to bring the balance back to rights, and she seemed to be its anchor. Surely God had a purpose in bringing his path to cross with Owen’s.

From somewhere in the shadows of his room a chuckle issued forth, and a blessed, familiar voice said, “Yes. It is all part of God’s plan.”

Kemp’s eyes opened wide. He rose up onto his elbows and peered into the darkness. The shape of a man appeared, a deeper shadow that gradually brightened until it was the opposite of shadow, glowing brilliantly in the dingy room. Kemp gasped, drinking in the sight. His eyes pricked with tears. He clambered out of bed and fell to his knees before the figure, reaching for its robe and weeping without shame. A hand caressed his head, tingling where it touched him. Finally Kemp got his voice under control enough to say, “You have come for me.”

“I have come,” Azriel agreed. He stepped back, but his hand remained on Kemp’s head as if in blessing. “Fear not, my son, I have not abandoned you.”

Kemp blinked against fresh tears. How he longed throw himself at him, to pass into that angelic embrace never to return to Earth. But he forced himself to keep still, to keep his voice under control, and asked, “What do you ask of me?”

“Patience. Soon you will be free of this place.”

Kemp swallowed hard, and the beautiful face above him smiled. “Only a little more time,” he assured him. “You understand now the bonds that hold the creatures surrounding Annie Sawyer must be sundered. Events are in motion. Remain here until your brothers come for you. Gain the trust of the young man. You will be needed.”

Kemp’s heart swelled. He would see the balance restored, in the name of God and of his slain wife and child. “What must I do?” he whispered.

“Find the professor. Make sure her work is finished. The werewolf will bring the others, and your young friend will carry Annie Sawyer to me.”

“Your will is mine,” Kemp said hoarsely, bowing his head.

The hand caressed him again, moving down to cup his cheek and tilt his face upward. “Soon,” Azriel promised, holding Kemp’s eyes with his own brilliant gaze. Then his expression changed and he glanced around. His eyes widened. His expression when he looked at Kemp again was urgent. “Do as I command!” he cried. “Your brothers will come—” He broke of in a gasp, as if in pain. His body arched as if someone had reached into his chest and grasped his heart. He was pulled backwards and then he vanished, leaving Kemp in darkness, kneeling on the hard tiled floor of his cell with fresh tears streaming down his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Azriel wasn't going to get Annie that easily! This is far from over, but at least for now the gang gets to enjoy some cinnamon rolls and get some sleep. Mm, cinnamon rolls...
> 
> The scene in the entryway when Annie speaks to her corpse is adapted from canon, as was the sequence in the previous chapter at Alan Cortez's show.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A (mostly) fluffy interlude that's long overdue. There's a particular scene in s3 of BH that I've been wanting to revise forever. I hope I've succeeded here. (And how's that for vague? But no spoilers in the headnote!)
> 
> Thanks for your patience as I write very slowly. (Seriously, how is it already November?!)

Loki slept later than any of his housemates on Sunday, a rare occurrence; usually only Annie was awake before him. Exhausted from the night’s spellcasting—and probably, Annie thought, in a sugar-induced coma from the two cinnamon rolls he had eaten at the tea shop, how _did_ he manage to stay so skinny?—he slept until almost noon and came downstairs to the kitchen in his pajamas, looking bleary and disoriented.

Smiling, Annie offered him a cup of tea. “Sleep well?”

“I must have,” he replied as he settled onto the bench along the wall. He gestured with the mug in his hand to the clock on the microwave, and then took a large gulp of tea.

“You needed it.” Annie sat down beside him and drew her knees up to her chest, resting her heels on the seat of her chair.

Loki studied her over the rim of his mug, his brows drawing together. “Did you sleep?”

“A little.” She had gone to bed with him when they got home, but had lain awake beside him, only dozing while she listened to his slow, even breathing. 

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Annie wriggled her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. Loki waited, not pressing her, while she sorted out her thoughts. They hadn’t really had a chance to talk since she’d closed the door to the other side, too distracted by the work of trying to seal Azriel on the other side. She wasn’t even really sure what she wanted to say, only that the events of the last two days didn’t seem quite real to her yet. She was worried about Sykes, who had left the house quickly yesterday, looking shaken. Annie knew he was unlikely to tell her why, and she wouldn’t violate his privacy by reading his aura, but she wanted to see him nonetheless, to at least try to help.

Finally she said, “I suppose I just haven’t processed it all yet. I feel . . .” She wriggled her shoulders in another shrug. She _should_ feel relieved, and she did, but it also felt . . . unfinished. “Like I haven’t quite let my breath out, yet.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I think that’s how it always feels, after a crisis.” He put his mug down and slid out from the bench. “Not that I have ever handled that feeling particularly well,” he added, while he poured himself a bowl of cereal.

Rolling her eyes, Annie floated the pink spray bottle to her and aimed. Loki winced and held up his hand in defense. “I only mean to say that I do not know what advice I can offer. I seem to have mostly sidestepped those feelings by getting knocked unconscious or almost dying. Or actually dying.” He gave her a wry smile. “That does not make me much of an expert.”

“I suppose not.” But Annie felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She put the spray bottle down. Loki looked relieved.

“Perhaps we should go for a walk,” he suggested around a mouthful of cereal. He gestured with his spoon and gave her a half smile. “Satisfy ourselves that the world hasn’t ended.”

Annie laughed. They both usually rambled the neighborhood separately—Loki on his runs, equal parts exercise and neighborhood patrol; and Annie on her walks with Scamp and Sykes. It would be nice to wander about with him. An idea occurred to her, and she said, “I’d like to go see Alan Cortez.”

Loki raised his eyebrows. “The psychic?”

She nodded.

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“No.” She shrugged. “But I think I need to talk to him.” She remembered the haunted look on his features. “I think maybe he needs help.”

Loki looked as though he wanted to object, but after a moment he said, “All right.” He took the last bite of his cereal and got to his feet. “I’ll go get dressed.”

***

The little storefront theater was dark and silent when they arrived, though the sign on the door advertised a Sunday performance. The street was relatively quiet, most of the other shops nearby also being closed on Sunday. He cast a quick glance around anyway before he used a charm to unlock the door and slipped inside after Annie. 

The lobby was empty, shabby and with a faint smell of damp. Just inside the door, Loki held up his hand as if he could touch the air or take the temperature of the room. He didn’t like the feel of the place. It didn’t feel dangerous, it felt . . . he moved his fingers through the air and then wiped his hand on his trousers with a grimace. It felt like despair.

No one came out to greet them, and after a moment they crossed the dim room to the theater. The auditorium was lit only by the strips of emergency lights along the floor and the faint light that filtered in from the lobby. As they entered, a flat, tired-sounding voice called out, “No show today. Alan’s not feeling well. Sorry.”

Loki peered into the dimness for the source of the voice. Beside him, Annie stood up straighter, also peering around.

“Robin?” she called.

There was a rustle in the air of the sort that normally accompanied Annie’s ghostly movements, and suddenly a young woman in an usher’s uniform stood before them with wide eyes. “You’re ali—You’re still here!” she cried, and threw her arms around Annie. “I thought— We thought—” She pulled away and grabbed Annie’s hand. “Alan’s been a wreck ever since, come on, he’ll be so—”

“Wait a minute,” Loki cut in, reaching for them both. He he didn’t like Annie being rushed off to the man who had orchestrated her latest brush with the men behind the door. The young woman—Robin—stopped in her attempt to pull Annie toward the back of the theater, and Annie gently disengaged her hand. 

“Robin, this is Loki. My—um, boyfriend.”

Robin blinked at Loki’s hand on her ghostly arm, then looked up and stared at him for so long that he began to feel uncomfortable. He let his hand fall away. Finally she turned to Annie and said, “He’s _alive_.” She looked back and forth between the two of them a few more times, then edged closer to Annie, lowered her voice, and asked, “How does that work?”

Annie’s face flushed and she opened and closed her mouth a few times, at a loss for an answer. After another moment Loki cleared his throat, calling attention to his presence.

Robin blinked at him, looking—belatedly—abashed. “Oh, right. Sorry.” She shrugged. “Most people can’t see me. Not like Annie. I thought—”

“Loki isn’t most people,” Annie said. 

Robin squinted at him, no doubt trying to identify what species of supernatural being he was. Annie touched her shoulder to get her attention again. “We did come here to see Alan,” she went on. “Will you take us to him?”

Robin looked suddenly anxious. She wrung her hands together. “Don’t be angry with him.” Annie raised an eyebrow and Loki bristled. Robin added hastily, “I know that’s not fair, but . . . he doesn’t know how to deal with all of this.” She gestured, taking in the three of them and, by extension, the supernatural world. “He never wanted any of it, and he hasn’t had much help making sense of it. And then he went to the wrong people. Or they found him. I know it doesn’t change what he did, but—”

Annie waved a hand to calm her. “I’m not angry,” she said.

“I, on the other hand,” Loki began, but he pressed his lips together when Annie shot him a quelling look. He might have more sympathy for the man, but he had tried to hurt Annie, and Loki had a special store of anger for anyone who dared to hurt her. She might not need his protection—though she had it—but he had a private conviction that only the most evil of beings would try to hurt Annie, even standing in this shabby little theater that told a very different story.

“We came to see if we could help,” Annie said.

Robin’s expression turned hopeful. “He’s backstage. Come on.” She reached for Annie’s hand again.

***

When they entered the dressing room where Alan Cortez was sat in a threadbare wingback chair with his head resting in one hand and a glass clutched in the other, Loki felt his anger disintegrating. A half-empty bottle of amber liquid sat on the floor beside him; two more empty ones sat atop a dressing table among a cluttered mess of stage makeup, papers, and empty take-away containers. His head rested in his other hand, his eyes closed. He looked to be wearing the same velvet suit as in his picture in the lobby, though this one was wrinkled and a touch too small. Seeing him, pale and sweaty and exhausted, Loki saw only a man who, in pain and desperation, had done something terribly stupid and destructive. 

Not so very different from himself.

He had to swallow back the shame that rose in him at the thought, not only because of the anger he had been harboring at the man, but also because of how, well, _pathetic_ he looked. Had Loki looked that way to Annie, to George and Mitchell, the day he fell into their dustbins? It was vanity, and foolishness, but he couldn’t help feeling that he had looked very pathetic indeed.

Inwardly, he grimaced. _This isn’t about you_ he told himself firmly. _Worry about that later._

Cortez moaned when they came into the room. “Robin, I told you, no—” he began, and then broke off when he opened his eyes and saw the three of them. “Oh,” he said. He stared at Annie. “It’s you.”

“It’s me,” Annie agreed. Her voice was soft, but there was something implacable in it.

“I thought—” He looked away. His hands shook as he finished off what was in his glass and then reached for the bottle by his feet.

Loki crossed the room and caught hold of the bottle before Cortez could pour himself any more. “Perhaps that is enough for now,” he said. Cortez blinked, his eyes bleary and uncomprehending, but Loki easily pried the bottled from his fingers and placed it on the dressing table with the other two.

Cortez turned back to Annie, who had taken a seat on another piece of the dressing room’s shabby furniture, this one and orange and brown printed sofa. “I thought they took you,” he said.

“They tried.”

He shuddered, raised his glass to his lips, realized it was empty, and let his hand fall back into his lap. A ragged breath escaped him. “I’m sorry,” he said.He wiped his eyes with his free hand. “I just wanted it to go away. The voices, they’re so loud. He promised, if I . . .” His voice broke.

“I know,” Annie said gently. “But you can’t make us go away.” She leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees, holding his gaze with her own. “It’s your gift.”

“I don’t want—”

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” she cut in. After a pause she went on, more gently, “It matters what you have, and how you’ll use it. That’s the choice you have.”

But Cortez shook his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’m so tired,” he said. He hid his face in his hand again. Robin perched on the arm of his chair and patted his back, and none of them spoke while he gathered himself. Finally he raised his head and looked at Annie again. “Why did you come back?” he asked.

Annie lifted one shoulder in an eloquent shrug. “You needed help.”

He looked away, bitterness twisting his expression. “I don’t think there’s any help for me, Miss Sawyer. But thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Robin said. “If anyone can help you, Annie can.” She looked expectantly at Annie, who shifted in her seat, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“Well, actually, I—”

“You need to learn to control your abilities,” Loki said, recognizing his cue. Annie could offer many things, but what Cortez seemed to need most was practical instruction of a sort that she couldn’t give. When he didn’t respond, Loki went on, “You need a teacher. Another medium who can teach you to shut out the noise when it becomes overwhelming.”

Cortez frowned, looking at Loki as though he were noticing him for the first time. Finally he said, sounding baffled, “You—you’re alive.”

Loki blinked, surprised and alarmed at the comment. If Cortez couldn’t tell the difference without scrutiny—even if he was very drunk—he was in greater need than any of them had realized. “Yes,” he replied.

For the first time, something—hope, curiosity—flickered in Cortez’s dull eyes. He sat up a little straighter. “You’re a—a medium? You could teach me?”

Loki grimaced. He pitied the man, but he didn’t think he could work with him. Not after the bargain he had made with Kemp. It wasn’t fair, but he did not want to spend any more time with the man than he had to. “I do not think I am the best teacher for you,” he said gently. “But I know someone who may be.” Agnes, he thought. Catherine would strangle him before their first lesson was through. “I will have her contact you,” he said.

Cortez sagged a little in his chair, though whether it was from relief or resignation, Loki couldn’t be sure. Robin put her arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” she said. “You should get some rest.”

He shook his head. “I can’t sleep.” He waved his empty glass around. “Unless I pass out.”

Loki felt another stab of pity for him, but this, at least, was something he could help with. “I can block your abilities,” he said. “You won’t be able to see or hear Robin, but it will allow you to sleep.” Cortez looked at him with eyes suddenly bright with hope, and Loki added quickly, “I cannot do it permanently without damaging your mind. But a temporary barrier will not harm you.”

He looked disappointed, but after a moment Cortez nodded his assent. Loki knelt beside his chair again and laid a hand on his forehead. “This may feel a little strange,” he cautioned. “Try to relax.” He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, his consciousness sliding into the medium’s. He felt Cortez flinch against him, heard him take a deep breath and felt him relax—or at least try to. The alcohol helped. It took Loki a moment to get his bearings; when he did, he winced. No wonder Cortez had spiraled so far. His psychic sense—what Loki could best describe as a channel in his consciousness open to the supernatural world—was deep and wide, letting through a torrent of sensory input he was barely equipped to process. Loki carefully placed his barrier, like a bank of heavy fog across the channel that would slowly dissipate.

He withdrew from Cortez’s mind to find the man staring at him with wide eyes. “It’s gone,” he said wonderingly. 

“For a time,” Loki agreed. “About half a day.” For a terrible moment Loki thought that Cortez might try to kiss his hand, but he let him pull away without protest and go to stand beside Annie. 

He frowned at the two of them. “I can still see you,” he said to Annie.

Annie smiled. “That’s right. But just me, yeah?”

Cortez looked around the room. His eyes skated past Robin. He nodded.

“We’ll be going,” Annie said. “Get some rest. And enough of that.” She gave a sharp nod toward the bottles on his dressing table. “Enough feeling sorry for yourself. People need you.”

Cortez looked down at his hands. He nodded.

“I’ll look after him,” Robin assured them.

***

Loki and Annie walked most of the way back up Windsor Terrace in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. As they neared the house, Annie said, “That was kind of you.”

“Hm?”

“Blocking his abilities so he could rest.”

Loki shrugged. “He needed help,” he said simply. After a moment he went on, “When I was in his mind, I saw . . . his abilities are very strong. Without proper training . . .” He spread his hands. “It is no wonder, the state he is in.”

“Kemp took advantage of him.”

“Yes.” They paused in front of the door to the pink house, and Loki dug in his pocket for his key. “But we knew that.”

“Yeah,” Annie agreed, following him inside. Kemp had taken advantage of Cortez, and no doubt there were others, but she was suddenly, emphatically, tired of thinking about it. She was no longer afraid of the doors, or the men behind them. Let them try to pull her through again.

Mitchell and George had left for work while they were gone, so the house was quiet. A good time, Annie thought, to test a theory she had. She needed a distraction, and Sykes had told her something that had given her an idea. She followed Loki to the kitchen and stood for a moment just inside the beaded curtain, feeling a little shy.

“So . . .” she said after a moment. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to try.”

Loki glanced up from where he had been standing in front of the open refrigerator, looking for a snack, and said, “Oh?” He looked at her expectantly, making Annie want to shrug and flutter her hands about.

“It’s something Sykes told me,” she said. “He said—he said I can taste.”

“You can . . . ?” Loki looked confused.

All in a rush, Annie tried to explain what Sykes had told her, that if she had physical contact with someone who was eating, and if they both concentrated hard, she could taste. She didn’t say what she had surmised, that if she could share the sensation of taste with a living person, then maybe she could also experience—other things.

She had barely finished speaking when Loki began to grin, a mischievous glint in his eye. A more kinetic energy began to gather about him, the kind she associated with him being particularly pleased with an idea he had. “Sit down and close your eyes,” he said, his own blue-green eyes twinkling. “Let’s see if you can guess what I’m eating.”

Annie laughed, relaxing now that it had become a game. She perched in one of the chairs and closed her eyes. She listened to him moving around the kitchen, opening and closing the refrigerator, rattling about various dishes, shaking packages. He spent long enough for her to be utterly disoriented by the time he sat down beside her and took her hand.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Annie replied. She concentrated on her mouth, and then thought maybe she should concentrate on _his_ mouth. Sykes hadn’t explained this part; he’d just said to concentrate. She tried to relax and reach out with her mind, the way she did when she was reading someone’s aura, but this time with the idea of _taste_. After another moment she had the sensation of something cool and crunchy and . . . a salty, sour taste spread across her tongue. She grimaced. “What . . . ?” she began, and then, “Is that a _pickle_?” She let go of his hand, smacked his shoulder, and wiped her mouth. “Ugh, I hate pickles.”

Loki began giggling helplessly at her glare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” he promised. “Really. I thought . . .” He gestured. “Strong flavors.”

She glowered for another moment, then she began to giggle as well, because she had been able to _taste_ it. She grinned at him, and then closed her eyes again. “Do another,” she demanded. “Something that tastes _good_.”

The next one was an apple, followed by some crisps, and then a dark taste, rich and creamy and sweet on her tongue. Perhaps the one food she missed more than any other. “Chocolate,” she breathed. She opened her eyes. Loki was grinning at her. 

She kissed him.

She knew that her touch felt chilly and insubstantial to the living; like snowflakes, Mitchell had told her on that long ago day when they had shared a brief kiss. To her, touching the living gave a feeling of faint warmth, as if she held her hand high above a candle flame. And that was usually what it was like with Loki, when they touched here on Earth, as if they touched through a pane of glass.

But she concentrated, the taste of chocolate still on her tongue, concentrated on his mouth, and felt the searing heat of his lips and the chill of her own, as if she were somehow able to experience his sensations as well as her own.

They separated, and Loki said, “I think . . .”

“Upstairs,” Annie agreed.

***

Loki conjured a gust of wind to close the door to the box room as he and Annie tumbled onto his bed. Annie felt the flare of power in her own chest. He fell onto his back and she pinned him, kissing him again, reaching out with her mind to feel the heat of him against her chill, misty form. She tugged at his shirt and felt him shiver as her hand touched his skin, felt as if her own skin crinkled into gooseflesh in response.

She had been working to keep herself as solid as possible, to give herself a form in which to be with him, but now she felt it starting to slip and felt herself, not fading away, but _sinking into him_ , as if—

He gasped, and Annie felt the strange and wonderful sensation of lungs expanding in her chest with air, of blood pumping through her veins, of cool air passing over her skin. She felt her own shock and his surprise at what she had done. She still lay on top of him, but she had also fallen into him, merged with him. It wasn’t quite possession, it was . . . something else. Something she didn’t have a name for.

She found his gaze and held it, and didn’t need to speak to be understood. _Is this all right?_

He let out a long, shuddering breath that she felt pass through her as well. _Yes._

He let her guide his hand over his body, and she gave herself over to the strangeness of a body that was and wasn’t her own, that was both achingly familiar and utterly new. They spoke to each other silently, easily as thought—more so, without the need to make formless want into words. She was with him in his body and they were both somewhere else, floating through the ether together in a tangle of sensation and consciousness.

And then they were falling back to earth, back to the narrow bed in the box room, the patch of sky visible through the window turning a dusky blue, and she lay beside him again, her spirit form separate from him once more. Loki sprawled beside her, breathing hard. 

“That was . . .” he began.

“Interesting,” Annie finished, breathless as he was.

He barked a laugh. “Not the word I was going to use.”

“I don’t think there is a word.”

He laughed again and rolled onto his side so he could look at her. “Well. We answered Robin’s question. Are you going to tell her?”

Annie rested her head on the pillow beside his. He pulled her close, though he had to have been cold, with her lying beside him and the flowered quilt crumpled on the floor with most of his clothes. She floated the blanket up over them. “I think we should let them figure it out,” she said with a grin. “That’s half the fun, don’t you think?”

He chuckled in agreement, then fell silent. Annie snuggled close, feeling relaxed in the aftermath of their lovemaking in way that she hadn’t in ages. Eventually she asked, lazily, “Penny for your thoughts?”

He didn’t respond for a moment. Then, his shoulder lifted under her head in a shrug. “It’s . . . foolish,” he said.

Annie propped herself up on her elbow so she could look at him. She had expected him to make a joke, or to tell her about some elaborate idea he had to improve his protective spells around Bristol, but instead she found him staring pensively at the ceiling. “I doubt it,” she said. “What is it?”

“I was thinking about when I fell from the Bifrost.” His gaze flicked to her. “When I landed here. I . . .” He seemed to search for words for a moment, and then asked, “What was I like?”

Annie didn’t answer right away. He had grown uncertain in the way that he did when he was talking about something important to him, and she wanted to say the right thing. Whatever had gotten him thinking about that, she thought it probably had something to do with their visit to Alan Cortez this afternoon. She wondered how much of himself Loki saw in the medium. A great deal, she suspected. 

“You were . . . very lost,” she said at last. “And tired. You slept a lot, those first few weeks.”

“I don’t remember it very well.”

“That makes sense. I think . . .” She shrugged. “It’s like I was saying earlier. Nothing seems quite real, after a crisis. Those first few days, or weeks, you’re just trying to make sense of things.”

He looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. Finally he asked, “Why?”

“Why what?”

He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. “Why did you help me?”

That was an easy question to answer. “You needed help.” She smoothed the tangled hair from his forehead, wanting to smooth away the frown lines there as well.. “And I think I needed to help you.”

He was silent for another long moment. Slowly, his expression relaxed, and he said, “If I was to get lost, then . . . I’m glad I found myself here.”

Annie kissed him again. “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time (hopefully sooner than later): George and Mitchell get some screen time.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we contemplate the nature of cause and effect, and everyone continues to let out their breath.
> 
> Annie and Loki had a few more things to talk about than I realized, so we’ll get to Mitchell in the next chapter. Happy Thanksgiving, if you'll be celebrating this week!

Loki had not felt, in any acute way, that their lack of a physical relationship meant that something was missing between in his relationship with Annie. Which was not to say that he didn’t desire one—or, for that matter, that they hadn’t explored the possibilities for one before this in a shy, tentative way. Well, shy and tentative on his part; rather less so on Annie’s. But even on others of the Nine Realms, where Annie had a more corporeal form, her ability to experience physical sensation had proved to be limited; on Midgard, it was as if everything came to her through a pane of glass, she said; on the other Nine Realms, things still felt _muted._ It was an improvement, but only a partial one. The realization had been disappointing, but neither of them (he thought) had felt that it was more than an inconvenience. Certainly it did not mean that their relationship was _incomplete._

The truth was, when they first started— When he first started to have feelings for Annie, the impossibility of a physical relationship had been something of a relief to Loki. Though he had not grown up in a society that regarded sex as shameful, he _had_ grown up in the shadow of an older brother whose perfection—he had always seemed so to Loki—had made him feel always inadequate: too quiet and bookish, too skinny, too small, too weak, too dark (his hair), too pale (his skin). His belief was reinforced (probably inadvertently, he could admit now) by the praise and, as they grew older, attention, particularly from young women, that had been showered upon Thor, while Loki stood in the shadows, feeling invisible on the best days. By the time he was of an age at which he might have wanted to explore, it was an established fact that no one touched the younger prince, and Loki had accepted that all of Asgard was repulsed by him. 

In this, as in all things, Loki had pretended indifference. Better to be thought haughty and aloof than to let anyone see how desperately lonely he was. He had thrown himself into his studies and his sorcery and convinced himself he did not care—though not nearly so thoroughly has he had convinced everyone else. 

He had since learned that at least some of the people who had refused to touch him all those years—centuries—had thought they were following his wishes; had seen how his own fear of being hurt had caused him to push everyone around him away. Still, the damage had been done. When he fell to Earth and met Annie, when he had started feeling something more than friendship for her, his _feelings_ had been complicated enough, never mind the rest.

To say that he was overwhelmed when Annie kissed him in the kitchen that afternoon and instead of the familiar icy tingle of her touch he felt something electric pass between them, would have been a profound understatement.

Loki had long since let go of his feelings of physical inadequacy because he was not as large or powerful as his brother; had, indeed, come to appreciate his own lightness and quickness and stealth, in contrast to Thor’s ostentatious power. (It was possible that his feelings of inadequacy had given way to an equally-misguided feeling of superiority for a time.) But he still never thought of himself—it never occurred to him to—as an object of desire. Seeing himself, experiencing his body anew through Annie’s consciousness was . . . rather a revelation. The second time she sank into him was slower, gentler, and this time Loki could wonder at not just the intensity of the experience, but at the feelings she opened up to him. 

Annie thought he was beautiful. Where Loki had always thought of his long limbs and narrow shoulders as scrawny and awkward, to her he was lean and graceful. The features that he thought were too sharp, too severe, she thought were _striking_. And she was eager to touch every inch of his pale skin.

He was aware, too, of her own wonder at sharing his sensations. Always before she had attended first—and often only—to her partner; her own pleasure had been secondary, coincidental. She thrilled with him at every touch, every breath, feeling for the first time at the center of her experience, and Loki followed her where she wanted to go.

It was dark outside by the time they had exhausted themselves exploring Annie’s newfound abilities, by which time Loki was thoroughly reassured that, if he had seemed pathetic to her when he fell into the bins behind the house, he no longer did, and hadn’t for some time. They drifted together, not quite dozing, until he was roused by the rumbling of his stomach. Beside him, Annie giggled.

He lowered his brows in mock irritation. “Some of us actually require sustenance, you know,” he said. He edged around her to climb out of bed and getting a set of pajamas from their drawer.

“Mmm,” she replied, tucking one hand behind her head and watching him with an appreciative look. He colored and looked away, pulling his sleeping clothes on quickly. She might think he was beautiful, but he still—rather paradoxically—felt self-conscious about being undressed in front of her.

The remnants of their abandoned game were still out in the kitchen—the bag of crisps, an apple with a section sliced off, and the bar of chocolate in its open wrapper. Annie set about cleaning up and making tea while Loki made himself a plate of eggs and toast. When he sat down to eat, he silently offered her his hand. He was glad they had the house to themselves for the rest of the evening. He felt private about what they had done, and he wasn’t ready for any teasing from George or Mitchell. Annie’s hand slipped into his and he could feel her hovering at the edge of his consciousness, a welcome presence.

She sighed and sat back when he took a sip of his tea, savoring the warm sweetness of it. “You know, I’m not sure if I miss chocolate or tea more,” she remarked.

Loki cast her a skeptical sideways glance.

She giggled. “You’re right,” she said. “Definitely chocolate.”

***

“So . . .” Nina said when George finished recounting the excitement of the weekend, “Does that mean things will go back to normal?” They had finished their shifts at the same time and gone to the pub near the hospital, where they settled into a cozy booth with their pints—a dark stout for Nina, a lighter ale for George—and a plate of chips between them.

George shrugged. “About as normal as things ever get for us, I guess.” He popped a chip in his mouth, not looking at her.

She fingered the friendship bracelet Loki had given her what seemed like ages ago now, but had only been a few weeks, and hoped she didn’t need its protective charm any longer. The fact that she was thinking so matter-of-factly about a magic bracelet—well, she supposed a person could get used to anything.

Like having a werewolf for a boyfriend, whose best mates were a vampire, a ghost, and a sorcerer from outer space. She had meant what she’d said to George after he told her his secret, that she had met worse monsters than him and his housemates, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have any fear. And she still had questions, which she didn’t know how to ask George without upsetting what seemed to be, at the moment, a very delicate equilibrium.

“You should hold on to that,” he said, nodding toward the bracelet.

She grimaced. “For next time?”

George shrugged and ate another chip. “What can I say? My housemates attract trouble.”

Nina raised an eyebrow. “But not you.”

“None of this had anything to do with me,” George said, bristling. Then he hesitated. “Well, mostly.”

“Mostly?” His tone had got her attention; it was the tone he used when he didn’t want to talk about something, but felt compelled to be honest. She narrowed her eyes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“It’s complicated.” He took a gulp of his ale and continued avoiding her eyes. 

“Well, I’m very clever,” Nina replied, perhaps a little more sharply than was necessary. “I’m sure I can understand if you use small enough words. So, explain it to me.”

He flinched. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” She forced herself to soften her tone. It wasn’t his fault she had been lied to before, and he was trying his best. “Go on, tell me.” She meant to be coaxing, but it came out sounding more like an order, making her grimace inwardly. 

He struggled visibly, opened and closed his mouth a few times, and hitched one shoulder up in a discomfited gesture. “There’s— _maybe_ —there’s possibly a cure. For me.”

Nina stared at him. “A cure. You mean—”

“I wouldn’t be a werewolf anymore.”

She rested her forearms on the table and leaned on them, trying—with indifferent success—to understand the miserable expression on his face. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Loki doesn’t think it’ll work. Neither does Mitchell. And it’s complicated,” he repeated, but this time he went on, explaining how Lucy had been contacted and funded by Kemp, and so whatever he wanted from her and her research, it had to do with the rest of the events of the last several weeks.

“But Kemp is locked away, right? And yesterday Loki”—she waved a hand to indicate magic, because that was still a little too strange to say aloud.

George nodded. 

“So . . . ? I mean, it’s over, right? They can’t do anything?”

“Probably not.”

Nina didn’t like the sound of _probably,_ but she ignored it in favor of the matter at hand. “What’s the problem, then?” She succeeded this time in making her voice more gentle, making it a real question instead of a demand.

“I want it to be real.” George’s voice was so low Nina had to strain to hear it over the noise in the pub. “But . . . I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“That it won’t work.” He shrugged. “Or that it _will_ work. I feel like it’s defined my life for so long, I . . . if I’m _not_ anymore, I don’t know what I’ll be.”

Nina pushed the plate of chips aside and reached for his hand, relaxing now that there was something she understood, something she could at least try to help with. “You’ll be you,” she said. “You’ll be the same man you’ve always been. Just, you know . . . less one wolf.”

That garnered a hint of a smile, but it faded quickly. “I’m not sure I know who that is anymore,” he murmured, his eyes on their linked hands atop the table.

Nina sighed, trying to think of something to say to reassure him. She knew he had lost a great deal after he had been attacked—though he still hadn’t told her everything. It occurred to her that the only version of George she really knew was the one he had become after the wolf. She recalled a day when she was on shift in A&E when a bus accident had brought in more than twenty patients, many of whom didn’t speak English, and George had stepped in to translate. She hadn’t really known him then, and had been too preoccupied to wonder what a man who apparently spoke six or seven languages was doing working as a hospital porter, but she wondered now. What else of his old life had he given up to “keep a low profile”—as he had explained was the purpose of his menial job?

“Well,” she said after a few moments, “you’re the man I love. So there’s that.”

His smile lasted longer this time. He turned his hand over and interlaced his fingers with hers. “And I’m the man who loves you.” He raised his gaze to hers. “It’s a good start, isn’t it?”

***

“You really don’t mind?” George asked sometime later, when they lay in bed together at Nina’s flat. He could tell by the sound of her breathing that she wasn’t asleep yet.

“Hmmph?” The sheets rustled with her movement, and she asked, her voice sleepy, “Mind what?”

“About my . . . condition.”

There was a long pause, during which he had the presence of mind to feel a little bit guilty for keeping her up, because he knew she was tired, but he was still too preoccupied to sleep—as he had been for the last few nights. Ever since Lucy had approached him at work on Friday.

She moved again, turning on one side and propping herself up on an elbow to look at him in the dim light from the streetlamp that filtered in through the curtains on her window. Finally she replied, “George, if I minded, you wouldn’t be here.”

He grimaced. Fair enough. He just couldn’t fathom that she was _okay_ with it, when he himself was . . . not. Really not. He had thought maybe he was, maybe the influence of his housemates and the reality of living a relatively ordinary life—as much as could be given the amount of trouble Loki seemed to attract at regular intervals—had helped him accept it, but when the prospect of a cure was held before him he found himself back at square one, the same young man who had fled his home after that first bewildering transformation and had only wanted, desperately, for his nightmare to end. And now maybe, finally, it could.

The problem, of course, was that the cure might not work. Probably wouldn’t, according to Loki’s assessment, which he trusted. And even if there was a possibility that it would work, it would be risky. Was it worth risking his life?

It wasn’t, after all, as if his life had been such a terrible nightmare since the wolf, especially the last couple of years, since he’d met Mitchell, since they’d moved into the pink house on the terrace. In a meandering and indirect way, he had met Nina because of it. Certainly, had he not been attacked that night in Scotland, he would never have come to Bristol or taken a job at the hospital where he met her. 

He became aware of her eyes on him and shook himself out of his thoughts. He shrugged uncomfortably and forced himself to ask, “Would you prefer it, if . . . if I wasn’t . . . ?”

“I’d be lying if I said I don’t worry,” she admitted. “But it’s part of you, and I accept that. Well, working on it,” she added. “I’m still getting used to all the . . .” She waved her hand.

“Things that go bump in the night?” George suggested.

“I think the question is whether _you’re_ okay with it,” Nina said.

“I thought I was.” He rolled over and looked up at the ceiling. “Now . . . I’m not sure. It’s this thing that’s a part of me”—that almost hurt to say—“but I don’t have any control over it. Once a month I turn into this monster and I’m still inside it, but I just watch. Like I’m in a video game and someone else has the controls, and they’ve decided to play the bad guys.” For a long time he hadn’t even been conscious when the wolf woke, and had had no memory of it when he woke the next morning. More recently—maybe in the last year or so, but it had happened gradually—George had realized that he was aware of, and remembered, a collage of impressions: smells and sounds, mostly, a desire to hunt and kill, and a strong sense of the full moon pulling at him, almost as if it were a sentient being, _watching_ him.

“It’s only one night a month,” Nina pointed out. “It doesn’t have to define your whole life.”

“I suppose.”

She was silent for a moment, studying him, and then asked, “What would you do if you weren’t a werewolf anymore? If the cure worked?”

“Get a new job,” George answered promptly. Mitchell might be perfectly happy with a job that didn’t require him to think very much, but George was profoundly, painfully _bored_ bored with his job as a porter. 

Nina blinked. “Really? That’s the first thing that comes to mind?”

He shrugged. “Maybe go back to school. Maybe—maybe contact my family, but . . . that’s complicated. When I left . . .” He trailed off, hesitated a moment, and then plunged ahead, because she deserved to know and it was easier to say it here, when they lay together in the dark, than it would be to face her in the daylight. “I had been engaged. I—I just left. After . . . the first time. I wrote a letter.”

He could practically feel the electricity gathering around Nina, the words shaping on her lips. _If you ever do that to me . . . _

“I know it was . . . terrible of me,” he said. It wasn’t a strong enough word. “I know I’m a coward. I was just so . . . I didn’t know what was happening to me. I was afraid if I stayed I would hurt them. I thought I should get as far away from the people I love as possible. So I ran.”

“And you wrote a letter.”

“Yes.” His voice was small. He waited for Nina to berate him, to tell him just what a coward he had been, but after a moment she only sighed, moved closer, and put a comforting arm across his chest.

“You’re no more a coward than anyone would have been in your shoes,” she said. “It was a . . . a perfectly rational response to a highly _ir_ rational situation.” She traced her fingers over the raised ridges of the claw marks on his shoulder. “You did your best.”

“Did I?”

He felt her shrug against him. “I’m not saying you don’t owe all of them a lot of apologies and explanations, but knowing what you knew then”—very little—“you did the best you could.”

“I suppose.” It reassured him to hear it from her, knowing the high standards Nina held others to.

They lay in silence for a few minutes, and then Nina pointed out, “You know, you don’t need to wait for a cure to do any of those things.” She lifted her head so she could look down at him. “Find a new job, go back to school, even contact your family. One night a month isn’t stopping you.” She lay back down, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder, and yawned. “You should figure out what is.”

He could tell she was tired, and so he didn’t press on with the conversation. He rubbed his hand lightly over her back and thought about what she had said. If his one night a month of being a werewolf wasn’t holding him back—and she was right, it wasn’t, at least not in any practical sense—then what was?

The answer to that was rather clear and simple, though he had no idea what to do about it. It was himself. He was holding himself back, as he often had, out of fear: fear of failure, fear of success, fear of change. If he got cured tomorrow, he would still be the same person. But he didn’t know how to change that. He didn’t know how to stop being afraid.

He felt Nina’s breathing slow and deepen against him, and he closed his eyes and tried to match it. He wouldn’t solve this problem tonight, no matter how long he lay awake and stared at the ceiling. To his surprise, he felt himself slipping down into sleep beside her.

***

Annie fell into a blissfully deep sleep when she and Loki went back upstairs, the kittens curled up around their shoulders, but she woke a little before dawn and knew she wouldn’t sleep any more that night. Not wanting to disturb Loki, who she suspected was still tired from his magical efforts on Saturday, as well as . . . other things, she zapped herself out of bed, tucked the blankets more snugly about him, and went downstairs.

Though she had not been a morning person in life, in her afterlife Annie often found it pleasant to sit outside and watch the sunrise. She settled on the back stoop with a cup of tea, Scamp at her feet, and tilted her head back, watching the stars fade from the sky as it lightened. 

She had fallen asleep beside Loki with a feeling of deep contentment, happy at what they had discovered together and basking in its newness. Being with him was unlike anything she had experienced in life; certainly not with Owen, who had demanded a great deal and given very little, in this as in every other aspect of their relationship. But it wasn’t only the element of the supernatural that had made it . . . different. As much as her newfound powers had allowed her to—to merge her consciousness with Loki’s, she supposed, to experience what he did—he had also opened himself to her, made himself vulnerable in a way that she thought would not have been possible for him even a few months ago. She had felt both his shyness and his wonder, and knew he had given her a gift no one else ever had, and she felt profoundly grateful that he felt safe enough to share that with her.

And yet she felt—sad. 

Why in the world should she feel sad? She reached down and scratched Scamp’s ears. Funny, how the little dog felt warm and almost solid to her. Her tail thumped a few times and she looked up at Annie and gave a sympathetic little whine. Annie felt sad and, she realized, _angry._ At _Owen,_ who she had barely thought about in months, who did not deserve the time of day. Locked away as he deserved, terrified but probably not, she thought, very sorry for what he had done. And she felt angry at him, not for the first time, but for the first time in a long while, because of what he had taken from her, and what he had taken—and she knew this wasn’t anything approaching rational—what he taken from _Loki_ , from both of them. Because even though she knew it was Owen’s actions that, after a fashion, had led her here, because if he hadn’t killed her she would very likely not have met Loki at all, she couldn’t help thinking that she would very much have liked to share herself with Loki in life, when she had had a body to share with him.

“Annie?” She started at the sound of Loki’s voice. “Are you all right?”

She looked around to see him standing on the other side of the storm door, wrapped in his robe and slippers on his feet, his hair mussed from sleep. She smiled, warmed by the sight of him. “I’m fine,” she assured him. Then, because she knew he would hear the lie, and didn’t want to dissemble, added, “Mostly. Just . . . thinking.”

He smiled back. “I will make some tea, and join you in a moment.”

When he came outside a few minutes later, he sat close enough to her that his side pressed against hers, and she leaned into him. He put his arm around her. “What are you thinking about?”

She gave a shrug, fluttering her hands in her lap, and couldn’t quite find the words that she wanted to say around the sudden ache in her chest. (It was strange, she thought—not for the first time—that she still sometimes felt as though she had a body even though she didn’t. Not a corporeal one, just this misty form that was her physical presence. She had the _idea_ of a body, only.)

Beside her, she sensed Loki growing uncertain. He shifted. “Was it . . . I mean, did I . . . last night . . . ?”

“Oh, no!” Annie said quickly, inwardly kicking herself. Of course he would think that, he was _Loki_. He always thought— “Nonononono. Not at all,” she assured him. “Nothing like that. Last night was, honestly, sort of . . . magical.” She turned her head so she could smile at him and took his hand, trying to suffuse all of her love for him into her touch.

She felt him relax beside her, as his face colored and he smiled back, shy again. “Oh,” he said in a small voice, and looked at the ground beside his feet. After a moment he murmured, “For me, too.”

“I was thinking . . . I was thinking that it would have been nice if we had met when I was alive,” she said. “And that even though we probably _wouldn’t_ have met, because all the things that happened before were part of what got both of us where we are, _including_ Owen killing me, I’m feeling really angry about it. Like he stole something from us. From both of us.” She shrugged again. “I was thinking that it would be nice to be _normal._ ”

“Ah.” Loki sipped his tea. “I hope . . . Annie, you do know that _normal_ is not remotely important to me, don’t you?” He ducked his head a little so he could look into her eyes. “I only want to be with you. _Normal_ does not enter into it.”

“I know.” She patted his hand. “I suppose I’m feeling a little sorry for myself,” she admitted.

“It is not _feeling sorry for yourself_ to mourn for something you’ve lost,” Loki murmured. “Or to feel angry for having lost it—for it having been taken away. You are right; Owen _did_ take something from you.”

“He did. But still . . . I have so much _more_ now than I did. I don’t want to say that _he gave it to me_ , that’s giving him too much credit, but I have what I have now because of what he did.”

“No.” Loki said, and Annie looked around, startled at the harshness of his voice. He took a moment to get hold of himself before he continued, “Perhaps in the sense that these events followed those, but it is _your_ kindness and strength that brought you here. And your courage, to face what he did and not grow bitter or too afraid to, to form attachments with anyone else. He meant to destroy you, and _you_ decided to make your life and—and your death”—he couldn’t help tripping over the word—“mean something that has nothing to do with him. _You_ did all of that. And you—you’ve given _me_ —” His voice choked off. 

Annie slipped her arm around him and rubbed his back. Her own voice felt too choked to reply right away. Of course he was right; if his perception of her was rather more heroic than was the case, she knew he was right that she owed Owen nothing, and that whatever had brought her to this place, this day, was _hers_ and hers alone. “Thank you,” she said, when she could speak again. “For reminding me.”

“Well.” He pulled her closer and turned so he could rest his chin on her head. She leaned into him. “You have done the same for me, many times.” She felt the vibration of his voice in his throat when he spoke. “I often need it.”

She smacked him lightly on his leg. “ _Don’t,_ ” she ordered. He made a noise of affronted innocence, but before he could protest Annie went on, “This is silly. The two of us, sitting here, feeling sad, when—”

“We could be doing other things?” Loki finished for her, a hint of mischief in his voice.

Annie tilted her head back so she could look up at him, her grin matching his. “Did you have something in mind?”

Before he could answer, a noise from the kitchen made them both turn around. A moment later, Mitchell peered through the screen at them, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry,” he said. “I just got in, and . . .” He trailed off, uncharacteristically hesitant. “Do you mind of I join you? I . . . could use a chat.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we spend some time in Mitchell's head, and move the plot forward a teeny tiny bit.
> 
> I've noted before that canon gives us two versions of how Mitchell met Josie. I've gone with the earlier one, from her appearance in s1, and elaborated on it in this chapter.

Mitchell’s evening had started off quietly enough. After a silent drive to work, he and George had gone their separate ways, George deliberately selecting tasks that would not require him to partner up with any of the other porters (which would, naturally, mean he would partner up with Mitchell). Mitchell went about his own duties preoccupied with worry for his friend. George had been withdrawn and morose ever since their discussion with Lucy on Friday, responding to Mitchell’s overtures with monosyllables and unwilling to volunteer anything of what he was thinking or feeling. He had said nothing more about wanting to go through with Lucy’s “cure,” and Mitchell knew he hadn’t talked to Nina about it yet. Maybe _he_ should talk to Nina. George clearly needed to talk, but Mitchell knew him well enough to know that he would only withdraw further if pushed too hard—but he did seem to respond differently to her. He was still contemplating how (and if) he should find Nina and talk with her when the sound of a familiar voice coming from one of the curtained-off cubicles in A &E drove all thoughts of his werewolves and cures from his mind.

“I’m quite all right—“

“We’d really like to keep you in for observation—”

“Really, I’m fine. There’s no need—”

“Josie?” Mitchell peered around the curtain separating the examination areas. She was sitting on the edge of the couch with her purse in her lap, and a tight frown on her face as she argued with a doctor—a pretty black woman with a brisk but kind manner, who Mitchell knew by sight but not by name—and a ginger nurse called Jason who Mitchell was friendly with. They both looked surprised to see one one of the porters poking his head into an examination. 

He ignored their frowns and came into the little alcove. “What happened?” he asked, alarmed by the sight of her. Josie looked worse than she had even a few days ago, he thought. Or maybe it was just that he knew she was ill, but her skin looked thinner, the veins showing through, and her complexion more sallow. A large bruise was forming on her temple under a bandage. He could smell blood under the pervasive antiseptic of the hospital, faint but definitely coming from her.

“Nothing,” Josie snapped, turning her glare on him.

“‘Nothing’ didn’t give you a bruise like that,” Mitchell said gently, coming further into the room. He moved slowly, like he did around the kittens when they were spooked by something.

Her mouth tightened, but her arms clutching her purse relaxed, almost imperceptibly. “A little vertigo. I fell. Really, Mitchell, it’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“You may have a concussion,” the doctor put in. Mitchell glanced at the name tag around her neck. _Martha Jones._ She seemed to have relaxed once she saw that Mitchell not only knew Josie, but appeared to be entering the argument on the side of the medical staff. “It really would be best if—”

Josie tensed again. “I don’t need to be admitted. Please call me a cab so I can go home.”

Dr. Jones sighed, but picked up Josie’s chart and clicked open her pen. “You’ll be checking out against medical advice.”

“I understand.”

“Maybe . . .” Mitchell began, attracting Josie’s glare again. He looked steadily back. He could sense her fear, though he wasn’t sure what she was afraid of. But he could tell she was almost desperate not to be admitted. She was gripping her hands together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. “Just stay for a few hours,” Mitchell said. He glanced at his watch. It was just after half 7. “My shift ends at 11. I’ll drive you home.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a flash of gratitude on Dr. Jones’s face. Josie still looked unconvinced.

“Come on,” Mitchell coaxed. “At least admit that I’m better than a cab.”

Her hands relaxed. Inwardly, Mitchell let out his breath. “Why, did you clean out your car since last week?”

“My car is perfectly clean!”

“Depends on your definition of clean,” she said, but there was a hint of a smile on her face, and Mitchell knew he had won even before Josie gave a curt nod to the doctor. “Until 11,” she said.

Dr. Jones gave a nod in return. “Thank you,” she said, and flashed Mitchell a smile as she reached for Josie’s chart. “How do you know each other?”

Caught by surprise, Mitchell floundered. “Uh . . .”

“Oh, I used to look after Mitchell when he was little,” Josie said easily. He turned to her to see a wicked gleam in her eye as she went on, “He was a right terror.”

He rolled his eyes at her, but he was relieved that she was teasing him. _She’ll be fine. At least for tonight,_ he told himself, and grinned back. “Well, you did let me get into an awful lot of trouble.”

“Let you! You weren’t to be controlled.” She turned to the doctor and in a conspiratorial tone said, “He used to hoard sweets.”

“My mum and dad wouldn’t let me have them,” Mitchell explained blandly. That was even the truth. “Explains my sugar addiction today.”

Dr. Jones laughed. “I see.” She nodded toward the nurse and said, “Jason will get you set up. I’ll come check in again before 11.” She disappeared around the edge of the curtain wall.

“And I should get back to work,” Mitchell said, and retreated in her wake, picking up the custodial cart where he had parked it across the hallway.

 _My childminder_ he thought to himself, shaking his head as he pushed it toward the lavatories he had been en route to when he heard Josie’s voice. But there was something nice about the story they had improvised to explain their relationship. It was . . . reassuringly ordinary. No monsters or murder, just hoarding sweets. If only his crimes had been so innocent.

He sighed, pushing the thought out of his mind. No use dwelling on what he couldn’t change. He was doing his best to make up for . . . well. He couldn’t _make up for_ the things he had done, any more than Loki could, but he could try to be better, and keep trying. There probably wouldn’t be absolution for him, but maybe there could be some measure of atonement, in time. That, at least, he had plenty of. 

He pushed open the door to the lavatory and wrinkled his nose at the smell. _Meanwhile, I’ll scrub toilets in purgatory,_ he thought wryly, and got to work.

***

When he went to get Josie to take her home at the end of his shift, she was sleeping. She hadn’t put on a hospital gown, but she had gotten under the blankets. Mitchell sat down in one of the chairs beside the bed, and picked up the celebrity rag he had picked up for her at the hospital shop on his break. He flipped through it, but didn’t do more than glance at the pictures. He knew that Annie kept a close and somewhat envious eye on Kate Middleton’s wardrobe ( _Honestly,_ she had grumped recently, _Owen could have at least done me the courtesy of killing me when I was wearing something fabulous,_ to which Loki had responded, predictably, that she looked lovely,) but Mitchell couldn’t bring himself to care very much about the royals or any of the parade of mostly-forgettable celebrity faces that changed every few years.

Instead, he found himself staring into space and thinking about the night he had met Josie. Carl had convinced him to come to Swan Lake and then to the cast party afterwards, an invitation he had managed to charm out of one of the corps dancers, who he hoped would introduce him to Siegfried. “It’ll be good for you to get out,” he’d told Mitchell.

Mitchell had been clean for about six months. Well. Six months and twelve days. Carl had helped him through the worst of the withdrawal at the beginning, and he had managed to stay clean since then mostly by avoiding people—humans and vampires. “You have to go out in the world sometime. It’ll be all right,” Carl promised him. “You’ll see. You can do this.”

It was not all right.

The ballet wasn’t so bad. Mitchell had been conscious of the hundreds of people surrounding them in the theatre, could practically hear the rush of blood flowing through the person immediately beside him, but he found that if he concentrated on the music and the dancing, he could ignore them. He was even distracted enough from his cravings to be amused by Carl’s soft sighs when Siegfried took the stage. He poked his friend in the ribs and whispered, “Maybe we should get you a swan outfit for the party.” Carl elbowed him hard in return, and Mitchell had to stifle both his squeak of surprise and his subsequent fit of laughter.

But the party was another matter. It was at a small house shared by several of the dancers, and amid the press of bodies and the smells of sweat and booze and sex, Mitchell had to fight every second to control himself. He stood on the lower landing of the stairs outside the lounge with a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other, affecting nonchalance while he searched desperately for a distraction. 

It came in the form of a young woman Mitchell recognized from the corps, seated—posed, really—at one end of the couch and concentrating very hard on lighting the wrong end of her cigarette. He noticed just as he was taking a sip of his beer, and he practically spit it out with his sudden snort of laughter. She seemed to realize her mistake at the same time as she noticed him watching her, and shot him an embarrassed little smile and shrugged. He grinned back and made his way across the room to her.

“Can I help you with that?” he offered, pulling out a book of matches.

“I seem to need it.” She leaned toward him, inhaling until the tip of her cigarette glowed red. She looked at him quizzically as she sat back, blowing smoke away from him. “I don’t know you. Are you here with someone?”

“Sort of a friend of a friend,” Mitchell said. He had lost Carl somewhere in the crowd and doubted he would see him before the morning, whether he went home with Siegfried or someone else. He didn’t mind. Not much, anyway. The two of them were . . . something, but whatever it was, it wasn’t exclusive, and Mitchell knew that he was taking a lot more from Carl than he was giving. Certainly, he couldn’t begrudge him seeking out other partners, casual or otherwise.

“So you’re unattached,” the young woman said speculatively. She blew smoke over her shoulder.

“I suppose I am,” he agreed. She was pretty, her dark hair still pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes made up large and dark for the stage. She had replaced her costume with a black and white dress that showed long, lean legs in thigh-high boots. 

She offered him her hand. “I’m Josie.”

“Mitchell.” Her hand felt almost hot in his, and he pulled away quickly and took a drag on his cigarette to steady himself. He was no longer conscious of all the other people in the room so much as _her_ , to the exclusion of everyone else.

“So, Mitchell.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “Are you a fan of the ballet?”

He grinned a little apologetically. “Not really. My mate dragged me along. But I enjoyed it,” he added quickly. He hesitated, then said, “I noticed you.”

“Did you?” She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the floor by her feet and stood up, holding out her hands. “Perhaps I should give you a dance lesson.”

“Oh, I . . .” She plucked his cigarette from his hand and stubbed it out, then took the bottle from his other hand and took the last swallow, and Mitchell was left with no choice but to allow her to pull him to his feet. He tried to still his nervousness as he followed her. He never used to get nervous around women. But then, he hadn’t been worrying about trying not kill anyone the last time he’d been at a party. Indeed, he had flirted with women at parties _so that he could_ kill them. If he really liked one, he would change her, though he never stayed long with those. He supposed, now, that it was guilt that drove him away, and back to Herrick, who always seemed to know what to do to free Mitchell from his demons—always, of course, creating more.

But he hadn’t been that person for a long time. Years. He had avoided situations where he might kill an innocent, and instead focused his energies on criminals, on the dregs of society, because more and more, it was the only way he could continue to live with himself. Not that he had any right to be judge and jury, with the crimes he himself had committed, but if he must kill, if he must drink, then—

Carl had changed all that. He had met him in 1965, and it wasn’t until three years later that Mitchell was ready to give _getting on the wagon_ a try. By then Carl had been clean for two full years, and he promised Mitchell it was possible. So far, he was right.

Mitchell let Josie lead him to a cleared area where other partygoers were crowded together, couples dancing close together, the air close and the music making everyone’s blood pound. He managed to get through three songs before the bloodlust started to overwhelm him. He felt it rising up, felt his vision starting to go sharp and red around the edges, and he broke away from her and fled out into the dark street.

He stumbled away from the house and sat down on the curb. His hand shook as he dug out another cigarette and lit it. He wished he had another drink. Something stronger than a beer.

“Mitchell?” Josie’s boots clicked on the pavement as she came up behind him. He closed his eyes, willing her not to come any closer. She stopped a few feet away. “Are you all right?” 

He swallowed hard. “Fine.” His voice came out sounding choked. “I just . . .” He fumbled for an explanation and went with something close to the truth. “Sometimes crowds . . .” He trailed off with a vague gesture. _Sometimes crowds make me want to go on a murder spree._

“I see.” She walked up and sat down beside him on the curb.

He heard her heart beating. When he glanced at her, all he could seem to focus on was the pulse at her throat. He edged away. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She looked at him strangely, midway through getting out a cigarette of her own. “Then don’t.”

He let out a breathy, half-hysterical laugh. “It’s not that simple.”

“Of course it is.”

“I wish it was.” He edged away from her, just a little, so he couldn’t feel the heat coming off her body. “I . . .” He trailed off. What was there to say? Carl was wrong. If he was going to stay clean, he couldn’t be out in the world. He was too dangerous.

“Your eyes turned black,” she said. 

Mitchell started. He thought he had managed to get out before anyone saw. 

“You sick or something?”

“Or something.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m a vampire.”

***

Mitchell still didn’t know what had possessed him to tell her. He supposed he had wanted to scare her off—let her think he was crazy. But instead of frightened, she had been curious. Of course, she hadn’t believed him at first, but neither had she dismissed him, or allowed him to make excuses. She had wanted to _know_ , and . . . he had told her. Maybe it was a product of the time, he thought. It was the sixties, after all, and the world had gotten strange.

Josie stirred in the hospital bed and opened her eyes, looking around the room with a confused—and alarmed, he thought—frown.

“Hey.” Mitchell set aside the magazine. “How are you feeling?”

She turned her frown on him, but after a moment seemed to reorient herself. “I have a headache,” she said, pushing herself upright. “And I’m ready to go home.”

“All right.” Mitchell had to go find the doctor on shift to clear her to check out—luckily Dr. Jones had made a note in Josie’s chart—and she suffered to be taken down to his car in a wheelchair. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, once she was settled on the couch in her lounge, in fresh clothes and with a blanket tucked around her.

She shook her head. “Just sit with me?”

“Of course.” Mitchell tucked himself into the remaining space on the couch. Josie shifted to make room for him, and settled down with her head resting on his shoulder. He stroked her hair, being careful of the bandage on her forehead.

“I can’t teach anymore,” she said. “I’ve been having the dizzy spells for awhile now. Side effects. I don’t have the balance to dance.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Joanna doesn’t know how bad it is. I mean, I think she’s guessed, but . . .”

Mitchell didn’t say anything. He wanted to tell her to talk to her daughter, but he knew she wouldn’t appreciate being told what to do. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t know. So he just held her and kept stroking her hair, feeling her breathing slow beside him.

“Does it hurt?” Josie asked eventually.

“What?”

“Dying.”

Mitchell tensed. “I . . .”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I wasn’t going to.” She had never been afraid of the truth. Maybe that was what had prompted him to tell her about himself, that night. She had been so unafraid. He shifted so he could look at her. “I don’t know if I’m the best person to ask.”

“You’re the only dead person I know.”

He shook his head. “I—the way I died was—” He sighed. “Yes, it hurt. But I was killed by a vampire.” He remembered it with astonishing clarity, the initial shock and pain of Herrick tearing into his throat, and the deep, insistent _pull_ as he drank him dry, a pain that started behind his heart and seemed to burn along every blood vessel as his life drained out of him, and then the hot salt-metallic taste of blood on his tongue, Herrick’s arm pressed against his mouth, and then—nothing. Blackness. Until he woke in a pile of bodies in a trench, alone. Herrick had left him alone, to stumble around, frightened and disoriented by his changed senses until he found the other vampires. A test. The first of many.

He shook off the bitter memory and said, “The moment of death, though, I don’t think—I don’t think that hurt.”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” he admitted. “It’s all sort of mixed up. And it was a long time ago.”

She nodded against him. “Thank you.”

“Are you going to be all right?”

She picked up her head and gave him a withering look. “I’m dying, Mitchell.”

“That’s not what I meant. Tonight—last night,” he corrected himself. It was almost dawn. “You were awfully upset about staying at the hospital.”

She was silent for a few moments. “I’m afraid,” she said at last. “I’m afraid that if they check me in, I won’t ever leave.”

He held her tighter. She had put a brave face on when she had told him about her illness, but of course she was afraid. He couldn’t blame her for that. And he had no idea what to say. Maybe it would be good for her to talk to Annie—but Annie hadn’t died of a long drawn-out disease. She might not be able to help with this, with the anticipation and the slow decline.

“I’m all right,” Josie said sometime later, her voice sounding sleepy. “You can go. You haven’t slept, have you?”

He shrugged. “I’m all right. But I’ll go if you want to be alone.”

“I do, I think.” She shifted so he could extricate himself. He tucked the blanket back around her.

“I’ll come by later,” he promised, and let himself out quietly.

***

“Oh, Mitchell,” Annie said when he had finished. “I’m so sorry.” She had made room for Mitchell on the stoop by moving to the step below the one where Loki sat and leaning against him, an arrangement that seemed to have mollified Loki’s earlier disappointment at being interrupted. “I know there’s probably not, but if there’s anything we can do . . .”

Mitchell hesitated. He had busied himself rolling a cigarette and he lit it now, exhaling the smoke away from them. “Actually . . .” He turned to Loki, trying to keep his expression neutral as he asked, “You know some healing magic. Could you do anything?”

Loki looked pained, as if someone had reached into his chest and squeezed his heart. “It’s okay,” Mitchell said before Loki had to tell him _no_. He looked away and took another long drag on his cigarette. He watched the smoke curl away in the morning air.

“I am sorry,” Loki said. There was a rustle as he shifted. “The healing I can do is relatively simple. I do not have the skill to reverse a complicated illness. Asgard’s healers study forcenturies in some cases, to do what they can.”

“I understand.”

“I could speak to my mother, but . . . my parents—Asgard—they will not want to interfere in matters on Midgard that do not directly concern them.”

Mitchell waved his hand. He was disappointed, but not surprised, and he knew of Asgard’s reservations when it came to getting involved in other realms. “It’s all right. Really, Loki. I wouldn’t ask them. I just thought . . . maybe you . . .” 

“I am sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s all right.” He gave Loki a reassuring smile.

“I cannot heal her,” Loki said after a moment, “but I may be able to—to ease some of her discomfort, if she wishes.”

Mitchell smiled, feeling some of his tension ease. “Thanks. I’ll ask her.” He looked up at the sky, blue-tinged pink as dawn edged into early morning, and did his best to shake off his melancholy. “I’m starving.” He stubbed out his cigarette on the stoop and got to his feet. Knowing what he had nearly walked in on, he couldn’t resist teasing. He turned a wicked grin toward Loki. “Shall I make you breakfast as an apology for interrupting you two?”

Annie laughed. Loki, predictably, flushed, and made a show of stiff dignity as he got to his feet. “It had better be quite the breakfast, to make up for that,” he said primly. “We were just getting ready for a game of chess. I’ve quite forgotten my strategy, now.” Annie dissolved into giggles behind him.

Mitchell snorted. “Chess. I’m sure. How about pancakes?” The household had developed quite an affection for the American breakfast since Thor had made them on a recent visit.

Annie glanced from him to Loki and said, with only a hint of laughter in her voice, “I think breakfast is going to have to include bacon if it’s to be a proper apology.”

George came home as Loki and Mitchell were digging into a stack of pancakes apiece, with more piled on a plate in between them, beside a plate of bacon and a bowl of orange slices Loki had insisted upon, to Mitchell’s mutters about him taking primary grade health lessons a little too seriously.

“Good morning!” George greeted them cheerfully as he passed through the beaded curtain.

All three of them looked up, surprised. “Morning,” Mitchell replied cautiously. He watched George get a plate and join them at the table, bemused by his sudden change in demeanor. After another moment he asked, “Are you all right? I mean, since—”

“Today’s a new day,” George replied around a mouthful of pancakes. He rather conspicuously had not taken any oranges.

“We’ve been worried about you,” Annie said.

“I’m fine. Great, actually.” 

“That’s . . . good?” Annie’s voice rose in a question as she watched him, as uncertain as Mitchell.

“Nina’s opened my eyes. It’s like she’s helped me finally figure it out. I’ve had an epiphany.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yes.” George reached into his back pocket and drew out a piece of paper with a dramatic flourish. “That’s why I am making _a list_.”

There was a long pause. Mitchell eyed him, his fork held halfway between his plate and his mouth. “Is this going to be like the time you got the cage? Because that didn’t go well.”

George looked annoyed. “No, Mitchell, it is not going to be like the time with the cage. This is a different list.”

Loki watched the exchange with equal parts confusion and amusement. “Why is the list important?”

“Because lists solve everything,” George explained with airy authority. “You put the thing on the list, you do the thing, and then you tick it off. That way, order is achieved, and the world becomes a better place.”

Loki blinked. “I rather wish I had been informed about the magic of lists when I arrived here,” he murmured. “I could have used it.” Annie smacked his shoulder.

George frowned at him. “Are you making fun of me?”

“Of course not,” Loki said quickly, though of course he had. To smooth things over, he asked, “What is on your list?”

Mitchell groaned. “Don’t encourage him.”

“I think it’s good,” Annie said. “Moving forward. What’s on your list? As long as it isn’t cages or tranquilizers, I fully support you.”

“Thank you, Annie.” George unfolded his sheet of paper. “I realized that I’ve been treating this whole wolf thing like this big life-changing thing, running around doing jobs a monkey could do”—Mitchell’s eyebrows drew down at that, though he didn’t say anything—“but what is it, really? Really, when you think about it, it’s one night a month. That’s all! There’s no reason not to live a long, normal, full life the rest of the time.”

“George.” Mitchell looked at him with a tolerant smile. “We’ve all been trying to tell you that for _ages_.”

George’s face reddened. “Yes. Well. I just wasn’t ready, I guess.”

“You’re a little bit thick sometimes, is what you mean.”

“I am not! I just—”

“Couldn’t understand properly unless it came from a pretty blonde nurse.” Mitchell’s eyes twinkled. “So, is _living a long, normal, full life_ on your list?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He read from the paper. “‘Number one: Get a better job.’ I mean, I speak a ridiculous amount of languages. I have an IQ of _a hundred and fifty six_ , for God’s sake. Surely I can get a job that doesn’t insult my intelligence.” He paused, and seemed to realize what he had just said. “I mean, um. No offense.”

“Yeah, well, us thickies at the hospital are really gonna miss you, man.” Mitchell reached over and took the list. “So, ‘Get a better job.’ Then what?” He frowned and turned the paper around so Annie and Loki could see it. “There’s only one thing on here. That’s not a list, it’s just a paper with a thing written on it.”

“It’s a work in progress.” George snatched the paper back.

“Maybe you can write it in each of the many languages you speak,” Loki suggested, serving himself another pancake. “Then you will have a list.” Mitchell didn’t bother to stifle his snort of laughter.

“ _Or_ ,” Annie said, shooting each of them a look, “you could break it down into smaller tasks. Update your CV, search the jobs websites. . . What do you want to do, anyway?”

George shrugged. “I’m not sure. Something with languages, I think.”

“That narrows it down,” Mitchell said, making Annie frown at him again. Knowing what was good for him, he clamped down on further commentary.

“Like what?” she prompted.

“Like a translator or interpreter. Maybe a teacher.”

“That’s great, George.” Annie patted his arm. “You’ll figure it out.”

They ate in silence for a few moments, before Loki ventured, “Does this mean you no longer want to pursue the matter of Lucy’s cure?”

“No.” George didn’t hesitate in his answer. “I mean, I do want to, if you can make it safe. I just . . . Nina pointed out that I can do most of the things I would if I got cured anyway.” He didn’t elaborate on what else, besides a new job, he wanted, and none of them asked.

“Quite right,” Annie agreed with a decisive nod, though she eyed him worriedly. Mitchell didn’t blame her. George manic and cheerful was only a little better than George withdrawn and depressed. Manic-and-cheerful George meant he had decided to move on, and had decided he was done with whatever was upsetting him, and almost always preceded a breakdown of some sort once he realized that he still had to deal with whatever it was. There wasn’t a lot any of them could do, though, other than be there for him when he realized that _moving on_ was a process that never really ended. 

Mitchell sighed and glanced at the clock. He could feel his sleepless night catching up to him. Loki followed his gaze and excused himself to go get ready for work. Mitchell went upstairs with him and went to bed, where he expected to lie awake and worry. Thankfully, he fell into a deep sleep before he heard Loki leave the house to catch his bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you spot the cameo from another fandom? Just for fun.
> 
> Also, I realized looking back that I contradicted myself in an earlier chapter on where Josie's daughter is. I said she was both teaching at Josie's dance school _and_ at university in St. Andrews, which doesn't actually work. :P She's living in Bristol, which will likely come up later.
> 
> Finally, some of George's dialogue in the last scene is lifted from canon, though the tone of it is a bit different here.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hello there. I'm alive. I was busy. Finishing my dissertation. I'm a doctor now!
> 
> Also: plot!

Azriel scowled at the image in his scrying pool. A vampire, a ghost, a werewolf, and a sorcerer share a meal in a bright kitchen. Damn them, they were _laughing_. The household should have been shattered by now, but instead it seemed stronger than ever. And that young sorcerer had expelled him back beyond the boundary between worlds like a common ghost.

He dashed away the image of them with his hand, splashing water over the edge, and stalked across the large stone chamber to the throne on the low dais at the opposite end. Angel, the priest had called him; demon, the young sorcerer thought. Both were true, in a way. He ferried souls from the world of the living to the world of the dead, where he ruled over them. Long ago, he had had a boat, on the river that ran between the worlds. He had used a different name then, worn a different form. Now he waited on the other side of a door. He offered welcome to those who deserved it, who had lived well and crossed the threshold in their due time. To those who did not . . .

There were others like him, other ferrymen. They squabbled among themselves occasionally, jostling for each others’ power or territory, seeking recompense for an imagined slight; but for the most part they ruled quietly over their corners of the spirit world and the souls who owed them allegiance. It had been so for millennia. Everyone kept to their place.

And then Annie Sawyer came along.

She wasn’t the first to refuse her door. It happened occasionally. There was that young soldier who had befriended her, who was too cowardly to come through the door and face his mistakes; there were others, there would be others. For the most part, Azriel was content to wait them out. They haunted the world of the living quietly and they did no real harm. 

But Annie Sawyer. She was such a tiny thing. Fragile, he thought. Uncertain, insecure.

She had not refused her door out of fright, or anger. Her decision had been calm, measured. Defiant. She had concluded the business of her life and declared that she had more living to do. She had refused his welcome.

Even then, Azriel had not thought her refusal to be of great import. He had been angry, yes; he had vowed to bring her across whether she willed it or not, yes; but he had not seen her as any different from the others who refused. 

The problem was, people noticed.

There were ways of seeing across into the world of the living, especially now that electricity was everywhere on the other side. The dead often kept tabs on their loved ones from beyond, and their masters allowed it, because it kept them happy—or if not happy, then docile. But they had started to keep tabs on Annie Sawyer and her household of supernatural creatures that did not obey any of the rules. They began to ask questions. They began, quietly, to resist the established order of things.

Azriel had to do something.

And so he had reached out to the Reverend Kemp, who he had been cultivating for years. It was apparent to him what needed to be done: the household needed to be broken up. John Mitchell had to be eliminated, killed or drawn back to his old, murderous ways. A wedge driven between the vampire and the werewolf. And Annie Sawyer had to cross the threshold. She would be a useful tool, once he had her. The catalyst to rebellion would be the weapon he used to quell it. 

Once he had her. And he _would_ have her. The gap between realms that had allowed him to reach out to the priest was closed, but he had other ways of communicating with the living. Especially someone he had established a link to.

He returned to the scrying pool and focused on the still water. An image took shape, a bland institutional room where an old man was deep in conversation with a younger one. The old man was calm and intent; the young man could not seem to stop moving, his fingers tapping, his leg shaking, eyes shifting. The old man placed a hand on his shoulder and he calmed. He asked a question. The old man answered it. _Soon_ , he said.

Azriel smiled grimly. He didn’t like to see a murderer go free, but it wouldn’t be for long. The young man would have his punishment. Azriel would see to it. And he had a use for him.

He waited for night to fall in the world of the living, for the prisoners to be ushered back to their rooms. In sleep, the living were as close to the world of the dead as they would be until their souls moved on. He had a message for his priest, and he could still speak to him in his dreams.

***

Mitchell and Loki slowed on the stairs up to Josie’s flat, glancing at one another. Raised voices came from behind the door, loud enough for both of them to make out clearly, with their sharp hearing. 

“I told you, Jo, I’m fine.”

“Only because the neighbor heard you fall and called 999! What if she hadn’t been home?”

“Then I would have called myself.”

“You were unconscious!”

“Only for a few minutes—”

“What if you’d been hurt too badly? What if—?”

“Don’t play that game. I wasn’t, and I don’t need a nurse—”

“I’m not saying all the time, Mum, just—

Mitchell grimaced and glanced at Loki, who shrugged uncertainly. Josie was expecting them, but Mitchell wasn’t sure he wanted to interrupt. Another moment of hesitation made their decision for them. The door into the corridor flung open and a young woman stormed out then stopped short when she saw the two of them on the landing. Mitchell couldn’t help it; he stared at her.

He had seen her picture in Josie’s flat, but that hadn’t prepared him to look a memory in the face at her mother’s door. He might have been gazing through a portal in time. Everything about her recalled Josie as she had been when they met: the smooth dark hair and dark brown eyes; her air of grace, even when she stood still; and, now, the way her eyebrows knit together into a scowl.

“Excuse me,” she said, shouldering between them.

Belatedly, Mitchell realized his mouth was hanging open. He closed it with an audible click and scrambled to the side to let her pass, nearly upsetting the take away containers Loki held balanced in his arms.

In the doorway, Josie sighed. “That could have gone better,” she said.

“Sounds like it.” Mitchell paused to kiss her on the cheek on his way into the flat. He hesitated, then said, “It’s not a bad idea. Hiring a nurse to look in every day, make sure you’re okay.” 

“Don’t you start. Hello, Loki.” She took the container that was balancing precariously on top. “What do you think?”

Mitchell almost burst out laughing at the look of panic that flashed across Loki’s face. He smoothed his expression and said, “I think that it is none of my business. Where should I put these?” Josie laughed and directed him to the kitchen.

Mitchell watched Josie carefully while they served themselves tea—they had brought spanakopita and moussaka and a large carton of chicken lemon rice soup, enough of all three for her to have leftovers—and gathered around her small dining table. The bruise on her temple was starting to yellow around the edges, and she had taken the bandage off, revealing the scabbed-over cut near her eye. She seemed to be steady on her feet, though. “How do you feel?”

She waved away the question. “A little sore. I’m fine, Mitchell. Really.” Her tone warned him not to press any further. She sounded tired; he could tell she was in no mood to talk about her illness, after the argument he and Loki had overheard. Of course, he couldn’t blame her. He pushed his food around on his plate, thinking how little he really understood about what she was going through. Despite his age, Mitchell hadn’t ever watched a friend grow old and die. He’d seen plenty of death—caused a lot of it. But the death he knew was fast and bloody and brutal. His hand went to his chest and rubbed at the scar under his shirt. The death he expected would be swift (he hoped) and violent. It wouldn’t be the slow decay of age and disease. 

_One day, you’ll watch George die like this,_ he realized suddenly. The thought made him lose the little bit of appetite he had had. It wouldn’t be exactly like this, but one day, if he was very lucky—if he had the life he wanted—George would be old, and dying, and Mitchell would be by his side. (With Nina, with their grown children? Would Annie and Loki be there? Mitchell remembered the glee he had felt he had felt when George confessed that he wanted to marry Nina, but now he saw the end of that story and tied a knot in his gut.) 

He scraped his chair back. Loki and Josie both looked at him in surprise. Had they been talking? He had been too absorbed in his thoughts to notice. “Sorry,” he said. “I—I need the loo.”

He closed the door behind him and leaned against the counter, trembling. “Not a good time for this,” he muttered, but of course that didn’t help. He took a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself. He avoided looking in the mirror, looking down into the sink instead. He supposed it was partly the shock of seeing Josie again after all these years, and suddenly she was dying, slowly, too young. He couldn’t absorb it. He understood why she hadn’t told him at first. _I didn’t want to ruin it._ But _he_ was the one to ruin it, not her.

Well. He took another deep breath and splashed some cold water on his face. He knew what he would do if it were George who was ill and needed cheering. He could put his own angst away until they got home and make sure Josie knew she was still among the living (his own undead status notwithstanding).

In Mitchell’s absence, Loki had been regaling Josie with stories about some of the more mischievous children at his school, and he had her laughing nearly to tears with a story about Trevor and Patrick. He glanced at Mitchell, arching a concerned eyebrow, but continued when Mitchell waved him on.

“In their _pockets_?” Josie asked, laughing.

“Along with a large handful of mud. Trevor said they would feel more at home that way.”

Josie dissolved into giggles. “It must have been _everywhere_.”

“ _Everywhere,_ ” Loki agreed. “They assumed their raincoats would keep the mud in, but the pockets are not waterproof. And, as you can imagine, the frogs were not happy to be in there.”

“I can imagine.”

“I’m sorry,” Mitchell interrupted. “Frogs?”

“Trevor and Patrick had frogs in their pockets today,” Loki said. “It was very suspicious when they wouldn’t take their raincoats off after recess.”

“Because of the frogs.”

“Yes. They were dripping mud all about their feet and they _refused_ to take them off. And then one of the frogs jumped out of Patrick’s pocket.” The boys had dived after it, spilling more mud on the floor (and themselves), and releasing four more frogs to hop away down the hall. “They have been sentenced to help me clean the entryway every day this week after school,” Loki finished. “I do not know if that is a blessing or a curse. Today they were not very much help cleaning up after themselves. They were much more interested in trying use the mop to skate down the corridor.”

“And now I’m sure you have a greater appreciation for what a terror you were to your teachers,” Mitchell said.

“Indeed.” Loki grinned. “Also, they have given me an idea. I am going to hide frogs in Thor’s pockets the next time I see him.” His expression turned thoughtful. “Or perhaps I will turn into a frog and hide in his pocket . . .”

Mitchell snorted.

“What happened to the frogs?” Josie wanted to know.

“By the end of the day, they had all been relocated outside.”

“Did you have to turn into a frog to do it?” Mitchell asked.

“You know I am strictly forbidden from using magic at the school.”

“Yes, and I also know that that’s a rule which you _never_ break.”

“Never,” Loki said seriously, then broke into a grin. “When it will be noticed. A seeking spell is hardly even worth mentioning. And all the frogs are safely in their ponds again.” He turned to Josie, sobering. “Speaking of magic, shall we discuss what I might do to help you?”

Mitchell tensed, but this was the reason they had come over, and both Josie and Loki remained relaxed. Josie nodded. “Yes,” she said. “And thank you.”

Loki grimaced. “I cannot make any promises. But I hope I can at least try to ease your discomfort. Perhaps we should move to your lounge.”

Mitchell hung back, feeling as though he would be intruding on something private, and he cleaned up their dishes before joining them in the lounge. Josie and Loki were both seated on the sofa, Loki perched on the edge with his hands clasping her face, while Josie leaned back against the pillows, both of their eyes closed. Mitchell sat down quietly in the armchair and waited, fidgeting. Had this been a good idea? What if Loki couldn’t do anything?

Finally Loki let his hands fall to his sides and sat back. Josie took a deep breath and raised a hand to her chest, her eyes opening in surprise. “Oh,” she said.

“What?” Mitchell asked anxiously.

She took another deep breath. Mitchell thought he saw a little more color in her face, too. The bruise from her fall had faded away and the cut healed cleanly

“I hope I have made your breathing a little easier,” Loki said.

Josie nodded, looking a little stunned. “Yes,” she said. “Much easier. Thank you.”

“I can come again in a few days. I think the spell will last for about a week. It should help with your dizziness, as well.”

“That’s—” Josie began, and took another deep breath. “Thank you,” she repeated.

Loki waved her thanks away. “I am sorry I cannot do more. My healing abilities are limited.”

“You’ve done plenty, believe me. I feel better now than I have in weeks.” She rose to see them out. “And now I think I should call my daughter.” Mitchell opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Josie raised. “I’ll think about hiring a nurse,” she said. 

“Maybe Nina,” Loki suggested. “You met her at our house.” Josie nodded, seeming cheered by the though of a familiar face.

“I’ll think about it,” she said again.

***

“How is she, really?” Mitchell asked when they got in the car.

Loki concentrated harder than he needed to on buckling his seat belt. “She is very ill,” he said finally. He hesitated. “I do not think she has very much time.” 

Mitchell nodded, his grip tight on the wheel. They drove the rest of the way home in silence.

***

Despite his intentions to visit Lucy’s “facility” (Loki thought it a rather sinister thing to call the place, conjuring up images of mad scientists and unpleasant experiments) as soon as possible, between their conflicting work schedules, it wasn’t until Friday afternoon that they was able to arrange it. He took the bus to the stop Lucy had given him, and walked the three blocks to a large warehouse more or less indistinguishable from the others on the block, except for the number affixed to the wall above a rolling garage door.

Lucy greeted him at a smaller side door. He could sense her nervousness as she escorted him inside, and he did his best not to act in any way that would make her uncomfortable, though he himself was uneasy. Mitchell had pointed out the day before that, with Kemp locked away, the fact that Lucy still seemed to be getting money for her research from the Templars suggested that the organization had interests in her werewolf “cure,” and Kemp was not a rogue operative. It made all of them uneasy. One deranged priest with a vendetta against supernatural creatures was bad enough; a whole brotherhood of them did not bear thinking about.

He followed Lucy into a large open space. Dim light came in from a row of windows that lined the top of each wall. Off to one side was a massive sort of pod, shaped like a cylinder lying on its side and big enough for a man to stand up in. It was made of metal painted white with thick windows set in the heavy circular door and along the sides. An array of computers and screens were set up on a raised platform beside it.

“So, this is it,” Lucy said, gesturing as they approached. They climbed up onto the platform, which was positioned so that a person standing on it could easily see into the chamber through the windows on the upper curve of its side. She indicated a bank of controls and gauges. “This controls the pressure in the chamber, and these”—indicating another bank of screens—“monitor vital signs during the process.”

Loki nodded. It seemed quite well thought-out. In addition to the screens that would read out vital signs, another could show the interior of the chamber as seen by a camera installed inside, and a microphone and speaker and allowed the person inside the chamber to converse with those outside when the door was sealed.

“Can you turn it on?” he asked when she finished. “I would like to see how changing the pressure affects the ambient magic inside the chamber.”

Lucy blinked. “You can do that?”

“Of course.”

“I mean—you don’t need, like . . . a wand, or, or candles, or . . .”

Loki laughed, and she flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I am not laughing at you. Some sorcerers use candles or wands, but I do not. Nor,” he added, trying to put her at ease, “do I choose to wear a cape or a pointy hat.”

That made her laugh, as well, and seemed to ease her nervousness. Loki relaxed as well. “Besides,” he went on, “I am simply observing today.”

“And seeing how the—the magic is affected by the change in air pressure will help?” she asked as she flipped a large switch. The machine began to hum, and she pressed a series of buttons that made the needles on the gauges swing.

He nodded. He began to reach out with his senses so that he became more acutely aware of the ambient magic in the air around him. It was a green magic that warmed to him as a friend, though it mostly remained dormant. The magic of this realm—England, not Midgard—had come to his aid before, but it did so as it pleased. Unlike the more pervasive, but less sentient, magic of his home, he could not draw on it without its consent. “Most realms have some ambient magic,” he explained to Lucy has he watched the pressure change. “There is not very much here—nothing like Asgard—but it is enough that I can understand how the magic that effects George’s transformation will respond.” It tended to pool around supernatural creatures, which meant he could assume a stronger effect in George’s presence.

He frowned as Lucy increased the pressure in the chamber. To his senses, he could feel the magic being flattened and thinned as the pressure increased, until finally it was pushed out entirely. It would take longer in George’s presence, with the magic that he attracted and the werewolf magic to contend with, but he could assume the final effect would be the same. He nodded to Lucy to indicate that he had seen enough, and stepped back to perch on the railing on the far side of the platform while she equalized the chamber and shut it down.

“That’s good, right?” Lucy asked after he had finished explaining what he had seen. “If magic causes the transformation?”

“Yes and no.” He scrubbed his hand back through his hair. “The magic does cause the transformation, but it is also what protects George when he transforms.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Think about it.” Loki spread his hands. “I’ve seen him transform. Everything changes. Bones, organs, flesh. Everything.” He thought about George’s monthly transformations, how he clutched at his chest and fell, doubled over, to the ground, and said, “It would kill him without magic to protect him.”

Lucy was silent for a long moment. Then she said, her voice barely audible, “She always screamed.” Loki glanced at her. Her face had gone white and she was clutching the desk behind her. “Until she couldn’t. I think . . . it must have been very painful.”

He nodded. “The shock should kill him, but it doesn’t. As long as the magic protects him, he can make the change safely.”

She swallowed hard. “Do you think you can fix it so that it will work?”

“I’m not sure.” He pulled his hand through his hair again and pushed away from the railing. “I need think about it, and consult my books.” And should he? Would it help to get George’s hopes up? “In the meantime, may I see the files that Kemp gave you?”

In addition to the werewolf lore and accounts that Kemp had given her, Lucy sent Loki home with several notebooks of her own research, which he spent the remainder of the afternoon reading at the kitchen table. Lucy’s notebooks were at once fascinating and unsettling. They were filled with meticulous notes on the werewolf transformation, from human to wolf and back again, from her observations of her sister when she changed, as well as observations of samples of her hair, skin, and blood taken at different times of the month. Had Lucy had the ability to observe the magical energies that precipitated the change, her notes would have given him most of the information he needed to determine if he could make it safe to suppress George’s transformation. As it was, though, her observations were suggestive when he combined them with what he knew. The full moon was just one night away. If he could observe his friend’s transformation—from a distance, of course—he might have enough information to know if he could try to prevent the change.

And yet, as he read her notebooks, Loki felt troubled. The careful, detached tone of her descriptions belied her stricken expression when she had to recalled her sister’s transformation. Her notes didn’t even use her sister’s name, referring to her instead as “the patient.” Which face had Lucy’s sister—Laura; she had a name, he reminded himself—which face had she seen?

It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t his place to judge, but Loki couldn’t help thinking as he read that being the object of her sister’s study could not have helped Laura come to terms with her condition. Lucy had told him that their parents had taken Laura to every faith healer and exorcist they could find, while Lucy tried to find a scientific explanation so that she could cure her sister. It could not have felt very good, to be told from one side that your body was diseased, and from another, your soul. Everywhere she turned, being told she was _wrong_. He knew from Mitchell that Laura had taken her own life; Loki didn’t have to try very hard to imagine what it must have been like for her. She had lived what he had feared from the moment he discovered his true parentage, and the very idea had driven him mad. Indeed, he had fallen deep enough into despair that falling into the void, to what he believed would be his death, had seemed the best—the only—option. Had Laura told them how she felt? Had they listened? Could they see past themselves to her? 

“You look like you’ve bitten a lemon.” Annie’s voice, half-joking, half-concerned, cut into his thoughts. He glanced up as she dropped into the chair beside him. 

He closed the notebook in front of him, pushing it aside, and rubbed his eyes. “I am thinking unkind thoughts.”

Annie tilted her head to one side. “I doubt it.”

“Unkind and unfair,” Loki said. He didn’t want to dwell on them, or the memories of his own recent past his ruminations had raised, so instead he asked, “How was your day?”

Annie still looked concerned, but she followed his pivot. “All right,” she said, pushing away from the table. “Cuppa?”

“Please.” He watched her measure out tea and set the kettle on to boil. “Only ‘all right’?”

She shrugged. “I’ve been looking for Sykes,” she said. “I haven’t seen him since—” She gestured. “I’ve been going by all the places we usually meet. I don’t know where he lives, or—or if he lives anywhere, even.” She shrugged again, hands fluttering about. “I’m worried about him. Whatever he saw that day, he was really upset. I’d just like to check on him, you know? Make sure he’s okay.”

Loki felt a surge of warmth spread through him. He loved Annie for many reasons, but this was one of them: her kindness and concern for everyone around her. He counted himself singularly lucky to be included in their number. “I will help you look tomorrow.” He grinned. “Perhaps we can put up posters.”

Annie laughed. “Missing: ghost of World War II soldier, answers to ‘Sykes’?” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Maybe there’s a way to get the word out I’m looking for him, though. Why don’t we go see Alan Cortez tomorrow? It’ll be good to see how he’s doing, too.”

Loki agreed and, that plan in place, began poking through the refrigerator to see what he could make for tea. George and Mitchell were both working tonight, but he knew they would both be hungry when they got home. He found the ends of several blocks of cheese and some elbow pasta in the cupboard.

“Mmm,” Annie said. “Macaroni cheese. Are you going to ruin with broccoli again?”

Loki snorted. “After what Mitchell said the last time? I don’t think so. Though _I_ do not think it was ruined.”

Annie laughed. “An advantage of being dead is that you have no reason to pretend to like vegetables.”

Loki sniffed, and Annie laughed harder.

**

Lucy spent the rest of the evening at the warehouse, trying to distract herself by getting to work on a case review she had been putting off, but her conversation with Loki had stirred up feelings and memories that wouldn’t be shut away again. Trying to write the case review just made it worse. She had used the same language to distance herself from the pain of Laura’s condition. It was the only way she had known how to manage it, but now behind the words she only saw her sister screaming in pain.

She jumped when the door buzzer sounded, and was surprised to see that it was dark outside. She wasn’t expecting anyone; indeed, only a few people knew of this place. Perhaps Loki had come back?

Instead, she opened the door to a tall, craggy-faced man she had not expected to see again. A restless younger man stood a little behind him.

Kemp smiled. “Hello, Lucy.”


End file.
